


The Path Between Point A And B

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: (From a Side Character), Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguously Underage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Warnings for Emotional Manipulation, discontinued sorry lads, idiot boys in love, roommate au, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Roommate AU: In which Peter is in love with his doe-eyed roommate and won't do a damn thing about it to the eternal frustration of his friends, his boys and, eventually, Henry himself. The path from A to B is never easy, but Peter makes it unnecessarily difficult and they're all saints for putting up with these two idiots.)</p><p>He’s never been ready for Henry Mills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Peter doesn’t like notebooks.

He hasn’t since the first time his aunt offered him a brush and set him loose, wild and paint-speckled. Peter has carved deep into trees with his knives, inked careful lines across Wendy’s skin when she’s in an agreeable mood, splashed paint up the rise of the school walls and ran into the dark, glittering mad in the face of it. He can’t _stand_ paper for anything other than sketching across an English test, caricatures in the margins of a quiz. Paper is restraint, boxed in by the edges of the page, whiteness steadily filling in until there is nowhere left to go.

Peter doesn’t _do_ restraints, and he certainly doesn’t do notebooks.

He makes an exception now, _always always_ making an exception, sketching lines into the grain of the page because he just can’t _help_ it, graphite smudging up the skin of his fingers as he shapes the bow curve of a mouth, the slope of a nose, the delicate curl of an ear through the rag-taggle mop of bedhair that he can’t get out of his head. Because this is something he can’t pull out of his chest and throw out in paint, wants to, itches to. It thrums in his fingertips and he can't throw it out, can't explode it like stars across the sky.

This is something private, secret and quiet, something to huddle inside his chest.

The notebook is also very useful in covering up the fact that he’s rock hard in his jeans right now, because he can taste the steam from the shower, smell the fresh tang of bodywash, and hear the distinctive sounds of water streaming over flesh and Peter so _badly_ wants to throw his fucking notebook to the side, jimmy the lock on the bathroom door and stride in and-

He should leave.

He should, definitely, _leave_.

He should walk out of the room right now and walk down to the lacrosse fields. Henry would be confused that he’d left without him, but he’d get over it. He definitely _wouldn’t_ get over Peter pinning him to the wall of the shower and testing out the theory that he tastes like the goddamn cinnamon bodywash he uses.

Peter’s never been very good at doing the things he _should_.

His grip tightens on his pencil, wood threatening to snap, and the lines of Henry’s face on his page get darker, angrier, until the soft sketch is a mess of chaotic streaks and smudges, Henry ruined beneath his touch.

He needs a smoke.

He can’t even have a fucking _smoke_.

The lock clicks.

Henry's dressed. Oh thank fuck he's dressed. Peter doesn't know how to handle Henry Mills fully clothed and respectable in his school uniform - The _tie_. Peter never appreciated the hideous black and green ties until Henry - but a dripping Henry Mills, shower flushed with a single towel held up around his hips...Peter doesn't know whether he'd be able to let Henry out of the room again.

There's no way he would be, Peter knows. Henry is surprisingly private for a teenage boy, a phenomenon that Peter finds _endearing_ of all things, _adorable_. It's certainly something he's never encountered before. When he and Felix were assigned together, before the school caught onto just how _terrible_ an idea that truly was, neither of them were bashful.

Though that was maybe because, when he and Felix were roommates, it was in a pre-Wendy time and they were fourteen and oversexed, swapped saliva like air and exchanged messy unpractised handjobs on Felix's bed. Platonically.

There are grooves being carved into his palm, he’s clutching his pen so tightly, forcing away images of Henry pressed below him, hips jerking into Peter’s hand and

"Ready?"

This is what Peter has to deal with. On a daily basis. Peter has to sit still and keep his mouth shut, hands to himself, against every instinct that thrums through his body because Peter’s never sat still in his life, while Henry Mills waits for him, a walking wet dream, expectant with pink cheeks and damp curling hair, and _fuck_ , no, he isn’t ready.

He’s never been ready for Henry Mills.

“Go,” He says, tries not to sound strangled, because there’s no way he’s going with Henry to face Felix and Wendy in this state.

There’s no way he’s _moving_ in this state.

Wendy always takes an unholy kind of _glee_ in Peter’s pain, smirks and pointed comments and convincing Henry out of his shirt to fucking _sunbathe_ with her on the school fields in what had simultaneously been the best and worst day of October, and Peter gets it, okay? He gave her and Feix enough hassle when they were still side-stepping and tiptoeing around each other in the most infuriating dance of all time, but only because he could see how crazy they were for each other.

Only because he didn’t understand, didn’t have a Henry around to make his head spin.

Henry frowns at him. “You’re not coming?”

Which makes sense, seeing as how Peter had offered to wait for Henry so he didn’t have to walk down to the pitch alone, endured Wendy’s raised eyebrow, the way she and Rufio had snickered together as they walked off, arm in arm with Felix trailing behind them, because Peter might have clawed his way up from the bottom of this wretched school to earn the loyalty of his Boys, might scare first years on his worst days with Felix at his back, but he’s never been able to gain any such quarter from the girls.

Generally, they seem to think he’s an idiot.

Right now, Peter agrees. He feels wooden, feels awkward with too many limbs and none of them in the right place.

Can Henry tell? How can he miss it, the awkward way Peter’s sitting, the strategically placed notebook, the whiteness of his knuckles...

He’s so hard in his jeans that he can’t _think_ straight, every thought lopsided and hazy with Henry, and all he can think about it the little pink moue of confusion of Henry’s mouth, how much he’d like to reach for it, dip and taste and

Henry needs to leave. Right now. Before Peter ruins everything.

“I’ll catch up in a minute,” He promises, and when Henry nods and leaves he releases the huge shuddering breath that’s been growing in his chest, pushing his lungs against his ribs, since Henry stepped out of the shared bathroom, wrapped up in his weekend clothes that still don’t do anything to make him look older, still make him look criminal, not the seventeen Peter forgets he is sometimes with his wide doe-eyes and easy flushes that Peter _aches_ to see how far they reach, whether they spread to his chest, his hips, his thighs and _fuck_ , he gives in and lurches to the bathroom.

Peter is smarter than this, usually. He shares a room with Henry, a scarce few metres between them at all hours. When they’re sleeping, dressing, undressing, doing homework at all hours of the night because Henry insists on going over his over and over and Peter humours him and does his too. Peter’s around Henry constantly, he’s usually _better than this._

Just _today_...today Henry had been warm smiles and stretching limbs and it had lit something up inside Peter, burning like embers all day until it _flared_. Consumed.

He sinks against the bathroom door, because it’s not sitting, sitting is generous a word for how every tendon in his body is pulled tight, for the bow of his back, the wide splay of his legs as he fights to hold himself up, unzipping his jeans brutally fast and hissing at the heavy drag of denim and the cold kiss of the air across his hard cock as he pushes his underwear down to his thighs.

Fuck, the air still tastes of Henry’s bodywash, settles on Peter’s tongue as he breathes heavily, quickly, pulled in through gritted teeth as he finally _finally_ gets a hand on himself. It’s warm in here, condensation pressing up against Peter’s skin, cheeks, hand, as he strokes himself and for a second he can almost imagine the weight of it to be the heat of Henry’s breath, close, hot, watching him.

His hand tightens and he _keens_.

What would have happened if he’d done it? Picked the lock on the door and found a sopping wet and surprised Henry, _touched_ him? Slid palms across Henry’s chest, danced fingers across his ribs? Scraped and bitten at his neck? Buried his hands in the damp cling of Henry’s hair? _Tasted_ the pinkness of his lips?

He’d split Henry open and and finally understand, finally see what’s inside this boy that makes him so crazy. Peter knows he’s talking, nonsense and broken off chokes of Henry’s name as he sets a punishing pace, hips shifting up into the curl of his fist. He falls forward, his knees hitting the tiles with a pang, and it jolts his rhythm.

He bites down on his bottom lip, hard, hard enough that it’ll be swollen by the time he gets outside. What would it be like to have a Henry against him who _wants_ him? Large eyes hazy with need and Peter’s name on his lips, needy and breathy, _Peter, Peter please, god_

Peter comes with a groan, stroking himself through it as he shudders, shakes and bites down on the white knuckles of his other fist, but the damage is done. The echoes of his orgasm reverberate back to him off the walls, scrubbing away the imagined sound of Henry’s gasping voice until Peter’s just left with himself.

He shuts his eyes and the world seems quiet for a long moment, everything still except for Peter, shaking just a little bit.

He feels numb, ashamed of the fact that he doesn’t feel ashamed. He doesn’t _do_ this, not when thinking about Henry, it only makes things worse, but god he’s constantly burning in his bones with the need to touch Henry, hold him, kiss him and

 _Love him_.

Fuck, he loves him.

He can’t do that, can’t love Henry the way Henry deserves it, the way gentle things like Henry need to be loved. Peter is rage and spit and blood on his shirt collar, stolen moments in empty bathrooms. He’s not good enough for Henry. God knows Henry would never look twice at him like that.

He’s still shaking.

“Fuck.” He whispers and it falls flat in the air before him.

 

***

 

Henry wishes he’d remembered his scarf. It’s technically spring but there are still these cold snaps all the way up north, pinkening his cheeks and pluming his breath out in front of him, and he almost goes back for it when he hears his name called.

“Henry!” Wendy’s calling, looking more than warm enough in what Henry’s certain is Felix’s jacket, cheeks pinker than Henry’s and eyes bright. Felix’s hand at the small of her back confirms it just before she raises the hipflask to her lips, grinning at him and beckoning wildly with her other hand.

He jogs over to them.

Wendy is...Wendy is the best friend Henry’s ever had, unlike anyone Henry knows, taking his hand and pulling him along with her when she runs wild, and he’s still not sure why she imprinted on him as stubbornly as she has but he’s ridiculously pleased that she did, even if he can’t believe or understand it.

Wendy’s hug is tilting, warm, and she presses the hipflask into his hands and he sips at it, feels the alcohol burn down his throat and hands it off to Felix who tucks it in his pocket.

“Where’s Peter?” Wendy asks, threading her arm through his and pulling him along through the mud. They’re later than usual, the fields already trodden down by crowds of students heading to the lacrosse fields before them, and they nearly slip in the mud as they walk. Felix and Wendy were meant to go ahead and save them seats while Henry showered and Peter waited for him, finished his drawing, whatever it was that Peter was _actually_ doing, but judging by the redness of Wendy’s lips, the kitten-lazy hoods of Felix’s eyes, and the fact that they were definitely coming from the direction of the Girls’ Dorms, they got... _distracted_ along the way.

Peter’s not even here to needle them for it, nudge elbows into Henry’s ribs until he’s laughing, Peter always looking absurdly pleased with himself for some reason before Felix gives him A Look.

“Still in the room,” He shrugs, frowning. Peter had been...weird before Henry had left. He’d been fine before Henry had gotten in the shower, sprawling himself across his bed and digging up the notebook he’s been using more and more recently, waving a hand ‘ _Take your time, Mills, the girls won’t start without me_ ’ and shooting a grin at him before Henry closed the door.

Something in the interim must have affected him, turning his lazy frame into rigid lines and jerking movements, off-beat and staccato. He’d clearly wanted Henry gone, so Henry went, but there wasn’t much explanation about it.

“I think he’s in one of his moods,” He offers weakly, but it doesn’t feel like that. Peter in a mood is a Peter gone wild and the Peter Henry left had been restrained, cracking at the edges maybe, but reined in for some reason Henry doubts he’ll ever hear.

They might be friends, but Peter’s a mystery to even Peter some days.

Felix doesn’t look worried, though, doesn’t even look thoughtful. Felix is always aware of when Peter had his Days, sometimes before Peter himself, so if there’s a small smile still playing on his lips rather than the razor lines his kind face hardens into whenever Peter’s igniting, it can’t be anything _too_ bad.

He looks back at Wendy to see her raising an eyebrow at Felix, the same smile curving her mouth as the one on Felix’s face, only where Felix’s is knowing, Wendy’s is _gleeful_.

It’s moments like this where Henry really feels like he’s missing something.

“C’mon,” Wendy says before he can question it, tugs on his arm. “I bet the girls have saved Peter a seat, which means they’ve saved _us_ a seat.”

Henry's stomach flips icily and he can't explain why, but he follows Wendy as she pushes through the last dregs of the crowds to see Vidia sitting on the first bench with space around her and a raised challenging eyebrow on her face whenever anyone comes to close.

Henry doesn't blame the guy who takes one look at her and _flees_. With her high cheekbones and perfectly plucked eyebrows, Vidia's terrifying enough, even without the rumours circulating that the reason she's sitting out today's match has something to do with her sending one of the girls from the opposing team last match back to her school with a broken bone.

Wendy knows, won't confirm or deny, but Henry believes it, is eternally grateful that the lacrosse team seems to see him as some extension of Wendy rather than another male to terrify.

"These for us?" Wendy sits herself down before getting a reply, pulling Henry down on one side of her and Felix down on the other. She leans around Henry to keep talking to the suspended team captain.

"But of course," Vidia grins, toothily. "Where's Pan? My girls are rather put out he wasn't there to wish them luck. They'll be even less pleased if their lucky token doesn't turn up at all."

The strange iciness in Henry's stomach grows inexplicably and he turns to ask for the hip flask only to see Felix is already handing it to him. He takes a swig, larger than the last one, and grimaces.

"He's coming," Wendy assures her, hijacking the flask on its path back to Felix. "He had an... _issue_ to sort out, I think."

Henry can't be sure but he thinks he hears Felix snort quietly into Wendy's hair.

"Better be fast, game's about to- There he is! _Pan!_ "

Henry turns fast enough that it hurts, finds Peter in a heartbeat. He's whispering into the ear of one of the team, Faun or Dawn or something like that, catching her fingers as she goes to play with the scarf around his neck. Henry's scarf.

The iciness rise to his throat and for a moment Henry can't breathe.

Wendy's muttering something to the right of him, voice cross, and he thinks he hears the word 'idiot' but he can't be certain, not with the sudden roaring in his ears.

"Hey, Mills," pulls him out of it, only because he doesn't think Vidia's ever directly addressed him before. Especially not as gently. "You don't need to worry, none of my girls are actually stupid enough to _date_ him. They just, well I don't know what they just, but don't worry." Her face changes and she's yelling again before Henry has had appropriate time to react to...whatever the hell _that_ was. "Pan! Stop distracting my girls, it's game time! Faun, get ahold of yourself!"

The girl Peter's with holds up a middle finger at Vidia but grins and pushes Peter away all the same. Peter strolls his way over to them, all the previous tension in his body dissipated, slides into the space between Henry and Vidia, thigh warm against Henry's.

"Charming as ever, Vidia," He smirks before he turns to Henry, unwinding the scarf from his neck. "You left this."

"Thanks," And Henry's voice sounds strained even to his ears, but Peter either ignores it or doesn't hear it as he hooks Henry's scarf around his neck. Henry stiffens when Peter's fingertips brush his jaw and _no, he is not doing this_. He is not! Peter's his roommate for crying out loud, developing a crush on his _roommate_ would be ridiculously inappropriate and oh

He's got a crush on Peter.

How long has he has a crush on Peter?

Why didn't anybody _tell him?_

Henry spends most of the match in a weird haze of dawning horror and the maddening reality that _Peter keeps touching him_. When the girls score a goal, he leans forward and cheers with everyone else, but there’s a hand at the small of Henry’s back like he’s anchoring himself. When he reaches for the hipflask Wendy’s still passing around, there’s a hand on Henry’s waist as he leans around him, the slightest brush of his cheek to Henry’s as he pulls back.

Does he usually touch Henry this much?

Henry’s never been so... _aware_ of it before.

With every graze of skin, slide of denimed-muscle against his, push of hot breath when Peter leans in to make some comment in his ear over the roar of the crowds, he only grows more aware of it, fights to _push. It. Down._

Henry hasn’t been here long, still the new kid for all he’s been weirdly adopted into the strange insular family Peter’s forged for himself, and he’s not about to ruin this for himself. His childhood wasn’t exactly filled with friends, lonely really, but ever since coming to St Rogers Henry’s been surrounded by people, friends, people who like him and want to spend time with him and it’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before.

He’s never had a study group for algebra, a Wendy to moan with when the exam’s the next day or a Felix to nudge them back into studying when all they want to do is lie down. He’s never had the twins settling themselves either side of him when he’s alone in the lunch room, chatting a mile a minute to each other and him only realising he was included in the conversation when they wait for him to comment. He’s never had a Rufio to pat him on the head, call him ‘Puppy’. Never had _friends_ before.

He’s definitely never had a Peter Pan, who hangs around outside his classes and walks Henry to lunch, kicks out a chair for him and talks like he wants Henry to hear him. Who doodles caricatures of teachers for him when he’s had a bad day, and stood up for him in his first week for reasons Henry still doesn’t understand.

He’s never had any of it before. He’s not about to ruin it for a fleeting confusing _crush_.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been quiet until Peter’s nudging him, turning away from the game and frowning at him. “You okay?” He asks, and that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the reason Henry’s heart has been performing advance gymnastics against his ribcage ever since Peter sat down against him. Because when Peter looks at him, it feels like Henry’s the only person in the world.

“Fine,” He gets out, smiles back because he doesn’t know how not to when Peter’s there, and _why didn’t he see this coming sooner, god!_ “I just still don’t quite understand the rules, yet,” He says, winces when one of the girls, he thinks Lyria but he can’t tell through the mud, crashes to the floor, springs to her feet and spits out a mouthful of field. “And I still haven’t finished the assignment Professor French set us.” Which isn’t a lie, but is so far from on his mind that he blinks at himself for a second.

Peter’s eyebrow quirks, looking unbearably amused, and Henry feels an unwelcome blush storm across his cheeks. “Homework?” He laughs, mouth pulling into a grin, all white teeth and mirth. “Are we that boring, Mills, that you’d prefer to be doing homework?”

“Leave him alone,” Wendy butts in, wrapping an arm around Henry and pressing a kiss to his ear. “He’s still new. Still too well-behaved for the likes of us.” He bats her off and she grins, giggling.

“Lets see what we can do about that, then,” Peter grins, wicked, and Henry’s heart skips traitorously in his chest. He presses a flask into Henry’s hands, a second flask, which is lucky because Henry’s pretty sure that Wendy’s flask is empty by now, and watches him until he tilts his head back and lets it burn his throat. His chest was already warm; this only adds fuel to the fire of Peter.

“You’re a bad influence,” He accuses, wiping his mouth, and his head is light, still unused to the kick of illicit alcohol fizzing his veins, which is the only excuse he has for adding, “But I think that’s okay, though.”

Peter smiles at him. “Good,” He takes the flask back, a dry brush of fingertips against Henry’s. “I can help,” He says, taking a swig, and his breath rises in the cold-snap air. “With the homework. Can’t guarantee I’ll be much help-”

Henry cuts him off with a snort. He may have only been here a few months, but even he knows that if Peter actually bothered to try in any class he’d give Felix a run for his money. Maybe.

Peter give him a look at the noise, mouth an amused curl. “ _Please_ , as if you even _need_ my help, Mills.” He challenges, before continuing from where Henry cut him off. “Can’t guarantee I’ll be much help but if it’ll stop you from worrying and let you focus on the pretty girls getting down and dirty in the mud, I’m glad to be of service.”

The warmth in Henry’s chest turn back to ice. He nods, swallowing. “Thanks.”

He still doesn’t look away, though. There must be something in his face, Henry’s never been good at hiding what he feels, because Peter’s eyes skitter across him like Henry’s something he’s trying to work out, and Henry really needs to look away now, really needs to force himself to look back at the game and away from Peter, the magnetic pull of him, before he does something stupid.

Peter looks away, and Henry breathes.

“Boys,” Wendy’s voice cuts through the fog in Henry’s head, and when he looks at her, she’s standing. Her eyes look sad, the bite of her mouth curved down. “Game’s over.”

Henry blinks. The pitch is empty, the girls crowded around the goals in a muddy heap of hair and blood and sticks, and the crowds are moving. “Oh,” He says, and it sounds shaky. “Did we win?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, gets up and starts to walk away, to get away, to clear his head, _something_. He hears an ‘ _oof_ ’ sound coming from behind him, but doesn’t, _can’t_ , examine it when he’s too busy pulling out the uncooperating strands of his heart, arguing with them.

“Henry!”

He turns, expecting Peter again, Pockets or the twins, frowns when it’s...no one he recognises. He looks around, certain he’s misheard, but when he looks back, the boy is smiling at him, coming over, very definitely heading towards Henry.

He’s taller than Henry, by a good way, too broad in the shoulders and with a square jaw. His smile’s nice, when he comes to a stop and aims it at Henry. Henry shifts under it, awkward. It’s clear that this boy, whoever he is, knows who Henry is. Henry feels bad at not evening recognising his face, let alone remembering his name.

“Never thought I’d catch you alone,” The boy says, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, and he’s too close. Henry tries to step back without looking rude.

“Alone?” He asks, looking back over his shoulder. But Peter’s nowhere he can see, which means no Wendy and Felix either. He _is_ alone.

“Yeah,” The boy shrugs, smile widening. “You’re always with Pan and his gang. Hard to get a moment with you and...you don’t know who I am, do you?” He trails off, biting his bottom lip, and Henry feels really bad right now.

“Um,” He manages, because, no, he really doesn’t.

“Tyler,” The boy, Tyler, _tells_ him, still smiling. Henry’s never met anyone who smiled so much. “I sit behind you in English.”

That explains it. Henry shares English with Wendy on one side and Peter on the other. Hard to pay attention to anything, bracketed by those two.

“Sorry,” He says. “It’s nothing personal, just-”

“Pan and Darling can be a bit much?” Tyler guesses, and there’s a note in his voice that Henry doesn’t like when he’s talking about Wendy and Peter, but it’s gone when he carries on. “I get it. I guess I just, wish you had. Noticed me, that is.”

Maybe Henry imagined it.

“Why?” He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest because Tyler’s still too close. It doesn’t make sense, Tyler’s an average distance away, Henry just feels… He feels closed in. Claustrophobic on an open field.

Tyler grins. It is a nice grin, Henry can acknowledge it. Sure to make any other boy or girl swoon, all pearly whites and red lips. But it is any _other_ boy. Henry doesn’t feel a thing, not when he still has the image of Peter’s honest smile, his whispered ‘ _Good_ ’, still running in his head, humming in his chest like butterfly wings.

“Well, it’d make asking you out on a date easier.”

Henry blinks.

Wait. What?

“A date?” He repeats, lost.

Tyler laughs. “Yes, a date. Do you always question everything this much?”

“Sorry,” Henry mutters, instinct, eyes dropping to his feet, shuffles them. His skin feels too tight, the way it hasn’t for months, not since he came here, and he raises his head, fighting the feeling down. “You want to ask me out on a date.” He fights to make it not a question.

“Yeah,” Tyler says, ducking his head, still smiling. “I like you, Henry. I think you might like me, too.”

“Oh.” Henry swallows, searching his brain. He’s never...never done this before. Never been asked out, certainly never turned anyone down. Tyler seems nice enough, he supposes, he’s just not

Henry catches sight of Peter, arm slung around Wendy’s neck and laugh caught in the air, and knows what it is that Tyler’s not.

“Okay,” He says, quick, before his mind can catch up with his mouth or his mouth catch up with his mind. Before he can talk himself in or out of it. Before he can _think_ about it. “That sounds nice.”

Tyler’s smile widens impossibly wide, toothy, and he’s about to say something else when a warm arm slides around Henry’s waist and a mass of blonde curly hair smushes against the side of his face. Henry smiles, leans into Wendy’s touch.

“You left,” Wendy accuses, still alcohol-swaying and affectionate, and Henry feels so unbearably fond in that second that it floods in his chest, his love for this not-a-sister Wendy’s become.

“Very rude of you, Mills,” Peter agrees from Wendy’s other side, grinning at him, eyes bright and it tugs at something in Henry's chest.

“Who’s this?” Wendy’s voice turns sharp, focused, and she straightens. Behind her Felix’s face shifts into hard lines, Peter’s grin turns pointed. Henry blinks, then remembers Tyler.

He’s about to introduce him when Tyler speaks over Wendy, looks directly at Henry. “Friday? I could meet you at the gates at seven?”

“Seven sounds good,” Henry agrees. His words hang in the air between them, heavy and ungainly, but they seem to make Tyler happy because he nods and leaves.

Leaves Henry with Wendy tense against his side, hand clamped down on his waist like she doesn’t realise how hard she’s pressing down. Leaves him with silence and the very real feeling that he’s messed up somewhere. Somehow. In some way he’s not aware of.

“What was that about?” Wendy asks, voice careful, all traces of alcohol wiped from it’s surface.

“I have a date,” Henry says, and he thinks he should sound happier than he does. More excited at least. “With Tyler.”

“Who the fuck is Tyler?” Wendy asks, angry, protective maybe, and right now Henry appreciates it, wants to curl up somewhere and forget about everything today has been. He wants to go back to the end of the match, decide to stay with Peter, Wendy and Felix, laugh and swap flasks on the walk back and never become aware of Tyler’s existence. He wants to go back to his bed this morning, where he could wake up and see Peter on the opposite side of the room, still asleep, and feel happy, not this twisted up feeling in his stomach. He wants

Not to feel like this.

He tries to answer and nothing comes out. When he turns around, Wendy's looking at him, expression indefinable. He's not looking at her. He's looking for Peter but Peter’s gone.

 

***

 

A date.

He has a date.

Henry has a date.

And it isn’t with Peter.

The words circle, repetitive and cyclic and over and over and over as Peter strikes out, again and again, at the red brick wall of the Art Building. He’s painted it before, this particular patch of wall, he’s sure, stolen away into the night and sprayed slashes of blue and gold and green over the uniformity that twists around his neck every day in the goddamn place.

There are still flecks of paint here, from where the rain hasn’t quite washed it away, and they transfer to Peter’s knuckles the more he hits the wall, splitting the skin, and he grits his teeth against it.

A date, a date, a date.

Peter’s a fucking idiot.

What would have happened if he’d been brave enough, pushed aside the voice screaming _not good enough_ at him and kissed Henry during the match, when the silence between them had drawn out so tight that all the roar of the crowd had disappeared behind the roar of Peter’s pulse. For a moment, Peter had been sure, so sure, that if he’d reached out, slid a hand into Henry’s hair, tilted his head and just _kissed_ him, the way he’s been wanting to for months now, that Henry would’ve let him. Just for a moment.

He’d lost his nerve at the last fucking second, looked away, and now Henry. Has. A. Date.

“Peter?”

It’s worse, so much worse.

As soon as he realised there was something _more_ buried in his feelings for Henry, Peter tried to keep his distance. Pull back on the touches he laid on Henry like his hands were magnetised, hold off on the flirting that comes to him easy as breathing when things aren’t important but Henry _is_. And he failed, he failed so badly. He can never help himself, always reaching out to press a hand to the small of Henry’s back, leading him through crowded halls, clasping a hand to Henry’s shoulder as he worked at his desk when Peter passed, hiding it behind a tactile greeting, pretending there was nothing more.

“ _Peter_.”

He failed at pulling back, he knows, never really tried because he can’t help wanting Henry, but he never let himself push past that boundary. He always kept himself that final inch away.

And he probably could have handled that. Lived with Henry in his life but not with him. But he never thought about what would happen when someone else realised everything Henry is and wanted to be a part of it.

It’s so much worse.

“ _Peter!_ ” Felix’s voice breaks through, like breaking through from underwater, and Peter stutters in his swing, hand falling back to his side, chest heaving. His knuckles are wet, throbbing, ruined, and he doesn’t care. A hand falls onto his shoulder, securing. Grounding. He sways into it, into Felix’s calmness.

“I think I fucked up,” He says, quiet and honest, and for the first time in his life, Peter doesn’t have a play.

 

***

 

Henry waits for Peter to come back that night.

He doesn’t.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry just wants everything to go back to normal

 

The walls of Felix’s room take the brunt of Peter’s frustration over the next few days, his artwork spiralling up and up and up until he has ink stains across his forearms and a storm splashed across the wallpaper, raging. He draws without stopping, without thinking, and if Felix were a lesser man or gave a damn about dorm room regulations, he would have kicked Peter out that first day when he came back after classes to find Peter painting angry snarls and violent strikes like a man possessed.

He calms, a little, when he runs out of space, collapses back onto Tootles’ bed and sleeps for twenty hours, wakes up to a stack of missed homework and a glass of water. Felix. He chugs the water and ignores the homework, flips to the back of the notebook he went back to his room to find while Henry was in class and starts sketching again.

He might not like notebooks, but they’re all he has right now.

Same eyes, same smile, same face, they all end up staring back at him in dark angry lines and pencil marks until they eventually become light again, softer, sadder, and Peter might be a ball of whirling teenage angst right now but he forgets how to breathe, just a little. It’s just a _sketch_ of him and still Peter’s affected.

He rips out the page, balls it up and throws it at the wall.

It wasn’t always like this. He didn’t always have a roommate that made his head crazy. Before Henry, Peter owned the hallways of St Rogers, wild and uncaring and mad. Peter had a network of people from firsties to finals, friends, all of them loyal to him. Peter had Felix and Wendy and Rufio, Slightly and Pockets, Curly, Tootles and Nibs, the twins. Peter had everything he ever wanted, clawed his way up to the top and held onto everything he gained with his teeth, and before Henry, that was enough.

Since Henry, all he’s known how to do is want.

“You missed the History test.”

Felix has a talent for sounding as if he was always in the room, calming and voice low, so it doesn’t jolt Peter but it pulls him out of the whirlpool of his thoughts. He’s grateful but smirks back all the same, because he kind of has to at this point. Even if Felix was never going to believe it in the first place.

“That it?” He grins, and it feels false on his face, painful, but he lounges back onto Tootles’ pillows and spins his pencil between his fingers. “I can make it up.”

“I filled in a paper for you,” Felix tells him, laying down on the bed a few metres away and closing his eyes. “You should get a B.”

“A B?” Peter quirks an eyebrow. “Losing my touch, am _I_?”

“ _You_ didn’t think you deserved the A,” Felix informs him, quiet, a note in his voice that Peter really, _really,_ doesn’t want to hear, and it’s generous to call the breath of air that that it punches out of Peter a laugh.

“Yes, well,” Peter mutters, fingers playing with the spiral-binding of his sketchbook, and he focuses on that rather than the stare he knows Felix is now levelling at him. “What?” He bites out, still not looking up, when the itch of Felix’s gaze becomes too much.

Felix sits up, serious. “You know they’re not talking to him.”

“What?” Peter blinks, meets Felix’s eyes. “They who?” He doesn’t need to ask who the him is. Doesn’t really need to ask who the they are.

Felix looks at him.

“I never wanted that,” Peter says, quiet, sitting up. He might have been hiding out in Felix’s room for the past three days, might be skipping classes and avoiding his room, avoiding Henry, like it’s his job, but it’s not out of... _revenge_ or something equally as ridiculous.

Peter doesn’t know what to say to Henry, doesn’t know how to stand in front of him and realise that he’s losing something he never had, see how much he lost his chance.

“They feel betrayed.” The ‘they feel like _Henry’s_ betrayed them’ goes unsaid, and that just twists the knife deeper in Peter’s chest. Fuck. Then Felix shrugs, fake casual, even as he’s strung tight as a bow. Felix has a loyalty that’s bone-deep, as a part of him as the blue of his eyes or the quiet smile he gives to Wendy, and whatever their friends are doing, Felix doesn’t approve. Peter’s glad, at least, that Henry has that. “You’re hurting, so they are.”

“They shouldn’t-” He cuts himself off, closes his eyes. Fuck, he just keeps fucking up, doesn’t he? “They shouldn’t be punishing Henry for this. He got a date. He’s _allowed_ to have dates. He-” Peter scrubs a hand over his face. He loves his friends, viscerally, but they shouldn’t be taking their upset or disappointment or _whatever_ out in Henry. Not for his sake. Not when Henry’s not to blame for any of this. “I’ll talk to them.”

“That would require leaving the room,” Felix reminds him, but backs off, the way he always knows how to, when to push and when to walk away, knows what Peter needs more than Peter does himself sometimes, and Peter loves him so much in that moment, grateful. “Tootles wants his bed back, by the way.”

“Tootles shouldn’t have offered it in the first place.”

“Tootles didn’t. You took it.”

“Details,” Peter waves a hand, but the smile on his face feels real for the first time in days. And the grin Felix gives him in return feels like a benediction, a forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. He’s never deserved Felix.

“You going somewhere?” He asks when Felix stands, smile fading as quickly as it arrived.

“Library. Wendy.” There’s a second name missing but Felix doesn’t say it. “I just came-”

“To check on me,” Peter finishes, and he doesn't mean it to be bitter but it comes out that way. “ _Fuck_.”

Peter rubs his hands over his face, buried them in his hair and _pulls_. He feels barbed, prickled all over, and doesn't know how Felix can touch him without feeling it but the contact is welcome and he leans into the hand at his neck, closes his eyes. Maybe he did need checking up on, after all.

He doesn't know what he'd do, without Felix.

"You can't stay in here forever, Peter. Gonna have to do something soon." Felix's voice is firm and he presses a swift kiss to Peter's forehead before leaving.

"Yeah, I know," Peter tells the empty room, and picks up his sketchbook again.

 

***

 

It's been three days since Henry last saw Peter and everyone has been acting weird.

No, not weird.

_Awful._

It’s awful. Henry is being avoided and he has no idea why. The twins barely spoke to him yesterday, and Pockets straight up turned around and walked away when he saw him in the hall. Curly had just seemed sad in French class and Henry doesn't think he's ever seen her without a grin on her sweet face before.

“I don’t understand what I _did!_ " His voice is too loud for the library and he hears the shushing of the crotchety librarian, Mal, coming even from the depths of the stacks he and Wendy are buried away in, but he doesn't care. He's been upset and confused already.

Now he's cross.

" _You_ didn't do anything," Wendy mutters hotly, finally closing the textbooks they haven't been focusing on for the past half an hour with a snap. "It's just..." She waves a hand. "Misplaced loyalty."

Which makes even _less_ sense.

" _Loyalty?_ "

Henry gets that Peter has a weird thing about loyalty. It’s an almost pack mentality, being friends with Peter. Henry gets just as caught up in it as the rest of them, doesn’t ever really  _want_ to spend time with anyone else. He’s never had friends like these before, never had friends, and the whole point of agreeing to Tyler’s date was to try and make sure he didn’t ruin all of that, ruin everything with Peter, in the face of the sudden realisation of what really lay behind his closeness with him.

Now, the whole thing just feels _pointless._ Which is even more frustrating.

But Wendy refuses to say anymore, her mouth in a tight moue, her eyes fierce, and Henry knows that look well. She might be angry, Henry can see it even if it’s not aimed at him, but Wendy doesn’t _like_ messing in other people’s lives, for all that she’s good at it. And she hates that she’s good at it. From what she’s told him, quiet and honest, about her years before St Rogers, before Felix and Peter, she knows firsthand what it’s like to be manipulated into place, into positions that other people want her in, doesn’t want to do that to other people.

Henry respects it, understands it more than he’d like to, and if Wendy’s decided she’s not saying any more than she has already, closes off and shuts down, for whatever reason, then Henry

Will drop it.

“It’s just,” He sighs, tapping his pen against the table, not looking at Wendy because this is more than he wants to say, can’t help but say it anyway. “I share a room with him. You’d think he’d _have_ to see me, eventually.”

God, he can’t even say Peter’s _name_ anymore. There's a spark of fear lodged in deep his chest that, if he speaks it out loud, lets _Peter_ roll off his tongue, it’ll sound different in the air. That he won’t be able to hide it anymore, now he’s stopped hiding it from himself.

He needs to get _over_ this, and get over it soon. Everything’s gone wrong since he tripped over that final line, realised what Peter means to him, and it needs. To. Stop.

He wants to go back to normal.

Because out of all of it, these confusing, lonely, _awful_ few days, it’s Peter he’s missed the most, been the most upset by, the most hurt. He’s close to Peter in that accidental way he never meant to be, even before he realised what was hiding behind it. Wendy is important, _so important_ , to him, but Peter was the first friend he ever made. And now he’s terrified that he’s lost that.

He misses Peter, and it feels obvious, like he’s screaming it outwithout even saying a word.

But if he is, Wendy, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it.

“It’ll be fine,” She says, softening once again, and she reaches out to press her hand to his. “He’s just... _being Peter_.” She settles on, the same look of aggravated fondness in her eyes she gets whenever Peter’s around, and Henry never forgets how close Wendy and Peter actually are, but it’s a dizzying reminder. “He’ll sort himself out and things will be normal again.”

Henry resists the urge to rub at the ache that’s forming behind his forehead. He feels turned about and screwed up and he wants to call his mom but there’s no way he’s worrying her from all these miles away.

So instead he falls into Wendy’s hug and accepts the easy comfort of her arms around him. And if his chest heaves a little, and his breath hitches in his throat, only Wendy’s around to see it.

He’s not sure how long they sit there, wrapped up together and hidden away in the back of the library, but eventually a throat clears nearby, breaking through their small pocket of each other. Henry feels Wendy lift her head, presumably to glare at whoever’s disturbing them, and maybe it’s too much of Peter rubbing off on him but Henry can’t find it in him to care.

“Is everything okay, Henry?”

Henry stiffens. Which really _shouldn’t_ be the reaction he has to the guy he has a date with in less than a week, and he’s going to need to work on that if this whole ‘getting over Peter’ plan is going to go anywhere for him.

He immediately feels bad and extricates himself from Wendy’s arms to smile weakly at Tyler who’s hovering at the edge of their table.

But Tyler’s not looking at him.

Tyler’s looking at Wendy, eyes cold, but then he blinks, and the look is gone, as if it were never there in the first place.

Henry’s fading headache roars back into life again.

“I’m fine,” He says, in answer to Tyler’s question, really just wishing that he would leave again. He hadn’t really expected to see him again before Friday.

But Tyler’s coming closer, pressing a concerned hand to Henry’s forehead, and that’s _nice_ , isn’t it? Even if Henry has to force himself to stay still under it, not bolt like a startled mare. “You don’t _look_ fine. Maybe you need to go to the nurse, I could walk-”

There’s a sudden cracking sound and a blur of motion, and Tyler jerks back so quickly that he falls over onto the floor, clutching the hand that had been pressed to Henry’s forehead to his chest and gaping up at a Felix who’s appeared from nowhere and is so full of Back The Fuck Off that Henry stares at him incredulously.

“Don’t,” Felix says, and if Henry thought Tyler was cold, Felix is _arctic_.

Tyler coughs, “I was just trying to-”

“I’m sure you were,” Wendy says smoothly, collecting up their books and sliding them into Felix’s arms. “Come on, Henry.”

“Henry,” Tyler tries again, eyes imploring, and Henry hesitates.

“Two minutes,” He says to Felix and Wendy, because he started this whole mess, he has to at least try and see it through.

Henry is an awful, _awful_ person.

Wendy doesn’t look happy at that, Felix less so, but they go, Wendy sweeping past Tyler perilously close, and Felix following.

“Your friends are…” Tyler struggles for a word as he gets to his feet, still holding onto his wrist, and he laughs. It’s not a nice sound, for all that it comes from nice lips. “The things I go through for you,” He says, gesturing to his wrist, and Henry feels even _worse_.

“They’re just protective,” Henry tries, but Tyler scoffs.

“You’ve been wrapped up in them for too long, Henry.”

Henry’s name doesn’t sound right in Tyler’s mouth, twisted, but Henry supposes that he can’t blame him right now. No one wants to be around Henry at the moment, _Henry_ doesn’t want to be around Henry, how can he honestly expect Tyler to?

Then Tyler smiles, and it’s sweet. The kind of smile Henry’s sure that a dozen other students have fallen in love with along the way. If only he could make it happen for himself. “I’m just glad you’re giving me a chance to take you out.”

Maybe it won’t be so bad.

“Did you-“ Henry starts to ask, but then cuts himself off because he’s pretty sure that asking ‘did you want something?’ isn’t exactly the politest thing he could be doing right now. “I mean. I-“

“You’re cute when you’re nervous.” Tyler smirks, and it’s got nothing on Peter’s. Henry forces that particular thought way _, way_ , down.

He blushes regardless.

He really, _really_ , wishes he liked Tyler in the way Tyler obviously likes him. Tyler seems pretty nice, he’s got a nice smile, handsome face. Maybe he’s not Henry’s type, but Henry’s coming to the unfortunate conclusion that his type is, specifically, tall and lean with slightly curled brown hair, dancing green eyes, and a smile that makes him feel lit up inside.

You know. Specifically.

“I have a class,” He says, weakly, when it doesn’t seem like Tyler’s going to continue, is just standing there, smiling at Henry.

“I’ll walk you,” Tyler offers, and he moves to collect up Henry’s books from the table.

“No, it’s alright,” Henry says, quickly, slightly _too_ quickly, but Tyler doesn’t seem to notice. Then again, Tyler doesn’t seem to be noticing much of how much Henry’s itching to get away. “Wendy and Felix are waiting, I said I’d walk with them.” He collects up his books and shoves them into his bag, slings it over his shoulder.

“Oh.” Tyler sounds put out. No, not put out. Tyler sounds pissed. But when he speaks again, it’s gone. Maybe Henry imagined it, though he’s sure he didn’t. “S’cool, I just wanted to talk to you. I really like you, Henry.”

“Oh,” Is all Henry can say. Because even saying ‘I like you, too’ would feel like a lie. And Henry might be an awful person, using Tyler like this, but he’s not a liar.

Luckily, Tyler doesn’t seem to expect it. “I’ll see you Friday, yeah?”

Henry nods. “Yeah. Friday.”

“Cool,” Tyler say, and even if he doesn’t look happy about Henry leaving, he steps aside as Henry passes. Then he catches Henry’s arm, hard, and Henry freezes as Tyler ducks to press a kiss to his cheek. It’s not a good freeze. It feels like fight or flight warring in Henry’s gut and suddenly he wants to be _anywhere_ but here. “Friday,” Tyler whispers into his ear, and Henry nods mutely, before walking away.

His heart hammers in his chest and he tries to shut it up.

He’s just over-reacting. That’s what people _do_ with people they like.

His discomfort must show on his face, because when he finds Wendy and Felix outside the library doors, Wendy’s entire face hardens. Henry has to stop her from heading back into the library.

“Wendy, I’m fine.”

“You don’t _look_ fine, Henr-“

“ _Wendy._ ” His voice is hard, like a cold snap, and Wendy stops instantly. She looks hurt, confused, but concerned most of all. She always does. Always looking out for him, like nobody ever looked out for her.

Henry really doesn’t deserve it right now.

“I’m sorry,” He says, himself again, now he can push aside whatever _that_ was with Tyler to being with Wendy and Felix again, now that he can relax. “God, Wendy, I’m sorry, I just-“

He honestly doesn’t know what he _just_ anymore, but maybe Wendy does, because she nods and takes his bag from him, sliding it onto Felix’s shoulder. Henry doesn’t try and get it back anymore, knows Felix won’t let him.

“It’s okay,” She assures him, taking his hand even as Felix hooks an arm around her. “Just…” She stops, mouth pressing into a tight line, before she decides to continue. “Henry, you’ve got to learn to say _no_ once in a while. Even if that jerk doesn’t see it, it was obvious you didn’t want to spend any time with him.”

Henry bites back the laugh in his chest, knows it won’t sound anything other than bitter, and that’ll raise a whole host of new questions. Better to keep Wendy under the impression that he’s just too nice to tell Tyler no, rather than see the inevitable pity in her eyes at the truth. It’s easier.

“You tell us no all the time,” Wendy says, coaxing almost, and bumps her hip into his. “I know you can do it. First person to ever tell Peter Pan “no”, I think.”

“Apart from you, love,” Felix reminds her, but he’s smiling. Fond. Henry doesn’t know if it’s for Peter, for Wendy or for him, but either way it settles him, just a little. Felix has a soothing quality about him, in his silences and solidity, that’s rare when you’re friends with the Lost Ones of St Rogers High.

“I don’t count,” Wendy mutters, but is saved from explaining what she means as they cross the threshold into Algebra.

Henry scans the faces, but Peter still isn’t here.

 

***

 

Friday comes and Peter

_Can’t_ stay in the room anymore. Not now. Not today.

Since the game, he’s been clawing the walls of Felix’s room, frustrated and angry, mainly with himself. But it’s better than the damage he’s sure he’d cause if he let himself go to Henry this week. He’d ruin everything if he saw Henry now, be cruel, cold, the way he gets when he’s hurting, the way he never wants to be with Henry. He’s not even sure if he _can_ do that to Henry anymore, but it’s safer like this.

Also because he’s _scared_. He doesn’t want to see Henry with Tyler. At all. If Henry decides to date him, Peter will manage, somehow, to tolerate his existence. Maybe. But not this week. Not when Peter’s still beating himself up, raw.

Felix has been silent on that front, and the only reason Peter’s kept himself from pushing is because he knows that Felix won’t say anything.

He’s wanted to, though.

Especially on Wednesday, when Felix has brought Peter back his algebra work and all but dumped it in his lap, heavily, making Peter huff out a breath at the weight, and folded himself up into his bed. Felix was angry that day. Angry at Peter, mostly, which Peter gets, he’s angry at himself too, but there had been something else there as well.

Peter had really, _really_ , wanted to push that day.

His hands are still smudged with ink, from where he’s gone over the places where Henry’s shone through on Felix’s walls, erasing him, hiding the uncovered pieces of his heart he put there, when he gets dressed. He’s not exactly planning to attend many classes today, but it’s easier to sling a tie around his neck than to be hauled before Principal Jones. He’s not in the mood today for that encounter.

Felix doesn’t say anything when Peter pushes into his bathroom to steal a toothbrush, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, just hands Peter the toothpaste. Peter rolls his eyes to hide how grateful he is, and Felix grins.

Peter’s wired, really fucking wired, nerves and pent up frustration, and he can feel his blood racing. He feels like a storm trapped in skin and he gets like this sometimes, when things are important, when he can’t _deal_ , and he’s glad he doesn’t have to say anything to Felix, who straps his bat to his backpack without a word. It calms him, but only a little.

“After you, boss.”

Peter will deny the readying breath he takes before he slips the smirk onto his face, before he makes his body stretching and lazy, arrogant, before he opens the door, but only Felix is here to see it anyway.

 

***

 

Friday comes and Henry

_Isn't_ hiding. He isn't. It's just impossible to grasp a full breath in the dining hall, too many people, too much noise, and it's so much quieter out here in the courtyard. He can breathe here.

But he isn't hiding.

...As long as he's already lying to himself, he definitely isn't panicking either.

He gets his phone out, clutched in shaking hands, and all he wants to do right now is call Emma, tell her about how he felt like the walls of the dining hall were closing him around him when Tyler started heading over to their breakfast table. How he was so stupidly thankful, _relieved_ , when Felix and Wendy glared him down, sent him scurrying with just a parting wave in Henry’s direction. How _awful_ he felt after that, had to get out, had to find somewhere quiet to just

It’s probably been the worse week of Henry’s life, for too many reasons, some of which he’s only got himself to blame, and he wants it to be over. He wants to lock himself in his room and pretend everything that’s happening just _isn’t_.

If he called Emma, she’d probably tell him that he can’t do that, that he needs to face it, that she knows he can do it, she’s proud of him. He’s not sure if that would make him feel better or worse.

Breathing almost steady again, heartbeat fading from the dull roar in his ears, Henry tries to get a hold of himself. His hand tightens painfully on his phone when he opens his eyes and looks across the courtyard only to see the reason for the rest of this awful week.

It’s the first time he’s seen Peter all week, and his heart leaps straight back into his throat at the sight of him. Peter hasn’t spotted him, leant against one of the stone arches and talking low to the twins, who look absolutely ecstatic to see him, almost as if they haven’t seen him for as long as Henry.

Have- Haven’t they seen him either?

_Where_ has Peter been?

And suddenly, Henry doesn’t care. He doesn’t. He’s been caring so _much_ this week, and it’s been tearing him apart. He doesn’t _care_ why Peter’s been avoiding him, doesn’t care how, doesn’t care about any of it. He’s cared enough, been so upset and angry that he can’t think straight.

Now he has a place to direct it.

He tucks his phone away and he’s halfway across the courtyard before he even realises he’s moving. He can hear his heartbeat again, thumping, but it pales in comparison to the sudden white hot flare of anger in his chest.

“Can we talk?” His voice is tight, he doesn’t even sound like himself, and he sees the twins look at each other warily as Peter chokes on the cigarette burning between his lips, Henry's sudden appearance startling him.

Henry tries to remember the last time he saw Peter smoking, before reminding himself that he doesn’t _care_.

“Henry-“ Peter coughs, waving at the smoke that plumped out between them, straightening from his slump against the wall.

Henry plucks the cigarette out of Peter’s lips and throws it away, ignoring Peter’s protests. “Can we talk?” He asks again, and the twins seem to get the hint, mutter hasty goodbyes and all but run back inside. They’ll be telling everyone in under a minute, Henry knows. He can only hope that Wendy can keep them all inside.

He loves his friends, but they’re nosy as anything.

“What about, Henry?” Peter asks, seemingly over the cigarette thing, and tucks his hands into his pockets, waiting.

He looks-

He doesn’t _look_ the same. He’s skittish, eyes not resting on Henry’s face for more than half a second before darting away. His body is tense and almost angled away from Henry, jaw clenched. He looks like he wants to be approximately _anywhere_  else but here. And he said ‘ _Henry’_ , like Henry was anyone else on the planet, negligible, and Henry just really wants to hear Peter call him ‘Mills’, smirk and make Henry’s stomach do stupid dangerous flip flops. He wants things back to normal.

Actually, no. Right now, he just wants to yell.

“Will you at least _look_ at me?” He all but explodes, and Peter snaps his eyes to him immediately, eyebrows lifting in shock, but Henry’s not done. “You have been avoiding me all week, _all week,_ and I don’t know why. The very _least_ you can do is look at me while I yell at you.”

Peter blinks, eyes wide, and nods. “Okay.”

So he- He doesn’t deny it. Fuck. Henry laughs and it’s bitter. “So it’s true. You _have_ been avoiding me? It’s not some big coincidence. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Peter doesn’t answer him. Peter _always_ answers him, because Peter always has an answer, a line, a quip to talk his way in and out of trouble, like smoke no one can grasp hold of. But Peter doesn’t answer him. Henry knew it, but it still punches the breath out of him when Peter doesn't deny it, doesn't even  _try_ to lie.

“ _Why?_ What did I do? I mean, if you don’t want to be friends with me anymore, that’s fine, I get it, just don’t be an _ass_ about it. You don’t want to see me, you don’t have to, I can move out. Just-“ Henry makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, tries to hold back the angry tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t know what I _did_ ,” And he hates how small his voice gets then. He doesn’t sound angry at all.

He sounds wounded.

Henry’s suddenly so very _tired_ , has to turn and walk away because he can’t keep talking, can’t keep looking at Peter right now.

“Henry, _no_ , it’s not-“

“Whatever, Peter,” He shrugs off the hand Peter hooks on his shoulder and keeps walking, ignores the note of desperation in Peter’s voice because he just can’t right now.

Maybe Peter gets it, because he doesn’t try coming after him again.

When he gets back inside, Wendy’s waiting for him in the corridor. “Come on,” She says, hooking an arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. “Let’s skip Math,” She smiles, and it’s a little sad, but it still makes Henry feel that little bit better.

Henry goes with her, and does his best to push Peter Pan out of his mind.

He’s not sure he succeeds.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“No.”

Henry holds up yet another shirt.

“ _No_.”

“Wendy, it’s just a shirt,” He huffs, because today has sucked enough already. All he really wants to do is pick a stupid shirt for his stupid date and afterwards come back to his room and hide under the covers from this stupid week. “Does it matter which one?”

“Come here,” Wendy says, taking the shirt out of his hands gently. “It matters, Henry.” She says, firm but not unkind, never unkind, but like she’s leading him towards an answer. When he still looks confused, she sighs and looks through his closet herself. “It matters because _you_ ,” She punctuates the word with handing Henry a pale blue shirt. “Are too good for him.”

Henry shrugs into the shirt and Wendy smoothes down his collar. “And I want to make sure he knows it.”

Henry doesn’t feel ‘too good’ for anyone today. Doesn’t even feel good _enough_ for anyone at all.

“He could be a lovely guy,” He mutters as he does up the buttons, and it doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears.

Which makes him feel worse because he _could_ be. Every encounter that he's had with Tyler so far, Tyler has been polite and nice and seemingly really interested in Henry. Maybe in different circumstances, Peter-less circumstances, Henry would have been really excited for his first date, nervous anticipation in his stomach rather than the sinking feeling threatening to pull him under.

It's just.

Every time, Henry walks away with the feeling of Tyler's hands on him and can't shake it for hours. It could be his own guilt over the whole matter taking, but Henry still can’t brush the feeling off, can’t stop feeling _trapped_ when Tyler looks at him.

Wendy’s mouth turns into a tight line of unhappiness, frowning, before she turns away quickly, settles herself on Henry’s bed and pulls a pillow into her lap. She pummels it slightly, not looking at Henry.

“What is it?” He asks, quiet, because there’s been something up with Wendy all today, wrong.

There’s a moment where Wendy looks at him, unhappily, and he honestly can’t tell what she’s thinking, before it _spills_ out of her.

"I looked him up." Wendy says it like she has to, like the information has been bursting at the seams and she finally has to get it out.

Henry blinks. "Him who?"

Wendy frowns at him like he's an idiot. " _Tyler_ ," She hisses, disdainful, like his name leaves a bad taste on her tongue, before she goes back to the contrition of before. "I looked him up. I convinced Vidia to let me have the keys to the offices, persuaded the twins to cause a distraction, snuck in and took his file." She pauses. "I also asked Slightly to hack his permanent record."

" _Wendy!_ "

"I'm sorry," She moans, and her head falls, hits the pillow in her lap and stays there. "I couldn't help it."

Her voice is muffled, but Henry can still hear the note of distress in it. He sighs, joins her on the bed and strokes her hair gently. "You guys really do have people everywhere," He says because he doesn't know how to make it better.

"Not 'you guys'," Wendy says, sitting up again, a little pink cheeked. " _Us_ guys. You're family, Henry, that's _why_ I did this. Because I love you and I can't _stand_ this."

"Stand what?" Henry asks, but Wendy doesn't hear him, stands up and starts pacing up an down the room.

"Fuck, I feel awful," She mutters, more distressed than Henry's ever heard her. "I never do this. I try so very hard not to do this. I hate it. But you're _miserable_ , Henry and I want to _help_ , which is what I'm sure my parents thought they were doing but I'm not them and, oh god, I just-"

"Wendy." Henry catches her as she paces, stops her. "Wendy, it's okay."

He's never seen her this bad before

"No it's not. I'm meddling." Wendy’s forehead is creased, she’s gnawing on her bottom lip, and Henry doesn’t know what to do. Should he call Felix? Felix might have been as strange today as Wendy, eyes hard, bat strapped across his bag, and Henry’s not been here long but he knows what it means when Felix’s bat is out, but he’d come for Wendy, of course he would.

"Because you care," Henry points out gently, instead, holding onto Wendy’s shoulder’s carefully. She scoffs a little and shrugs him off, but her hands rise to find his as they fall from her. “You’re looking out for me, yeah?” Wendy nods. “So, go on. Tell me.”

Henry doesn’t really want to hear it, nervous enough already, but if it makes Wendy feel better…

She nods again, still a little jerky, and they sit together on Henry’s bed. Henry finds himself studying the lines of Peter’s bed, still unmade from a week ago, and can’t help but wish Peter were here. He’d know what to do right now.

Which isn’t exactly pushing Peter out of his mind, so he looks away, looks to Wendy.

“It’s mostly very boring,” Wendy prefaces, distastefully, and Henry can’t help but chuff a little laugh. There’s nothing Wendy can stand less than a boring person, except perhaps an unkind one.

“Boring’s good,” Henry says, because there are worse things to be, and Wendy shoots him a sharp look, considering and sad, that Henry ignores because he’s getting the feeling he’s spoken too quickly here, before she continues.

“Average grades. Good attendance. From a wealthy family and the school knows it.” Here, Wendy’s nose crinkles again in disdain, her dislike for the games of money showing. Henry agrees with her, knows it’s only through Regina’s Old Money that he was allowed to transfer here at all. He can’t bring himself to regret it, though, not even after this week. “The thing is, he seems to _know_ that the school knows it. Thinks himself untouchable.”

Henry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to think it, but it fits, sounds right in the way Tyler speaks, reaches out and touches, like he has a right to everything.

To Henry.

“That’s not _too_ bad,” He hedges, even though it’s clear that Wendy’s far from done.

“Apparently, he’s had three relationships since he’s been here. All long, all intense, all serious. One each year,” Wendy says slowly, and Henry turns the information over in his head as she pauses, lets him. “And there’s a theme. When each of the partners were asked-“

“I changed my mind,” Henry says quickly, standing. He doesn’t really know where he was meant to be going after that, stands there, lost. He feels adrift at sea, anchorless, like Wendy’s shouting to him from the shore and her words are getting lost in the wind, the roaring in his ears. “I don’t want to know. I’m dreading this enough.”

“Dreading it?” Wendy parrots behind him, and she slides to the edge of the bed, catches his hand. Henry looks at it, before following it up to her face, imploring. “Then _cancel it_.”

“I _can’t_.” He can’t cancel it, he can’t. Not now, after everything.

“Well, why not?!” Wendy demands, angry, and she’s not angry with _him_ , Henry knows it intellectually, but the pink spots on her cheek, the clenched line of her jaw, the sudden shininess of her eyes, hit him in his chest, spread out icy fingers around his heart, and he’s speaking before he realises it.

“ _Because of Peter.”_

It’s not a shout but it’s still too loud in the small room. Henry feels hit in the face with it.

Wendy’s face opens in shock, and Henry’s knees give out a little. He sits back on the edge of the bed, resists the urge to bury his face in his hands like he really wants to.

“Peter?” Wendy’s voice is soft, her hand on his shoulder even more so, and Henry closes his eyes. “What about Peter?”

Henry just _looks_ at her and her mouth opens on a breath. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Henry nods, looks away again.

“You like Peter.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Henry says, and it’s the truth but it sounds so freaking ridiculous that he laughs, watery. “Didn’t even realise it until the game.”

“The game?” Wendy echoes, a little weakly. “When Tyler asked you out.”

“I thought it would help. I don’t want to _ruin_ anything.” Henry shrugs, because everything feels ruined anyway. “I’ve never had friends before.”

“Oh, _Henry._ ”

Henry hiccups and lets Wendy rest her head on his shoulder, her arm fall around his waist and hold on, tightly.

“Please don’t tell him,” He whispers, barely loud enough for him to hear, and he doesn’t say it but Peter’s name hangs in the air, lounges on his bed, watches Henry as he sits there.

Wendy’s quiet for a long moment, and her hand finds Henry’s again. “I won’t,” She finally says, quiet, and pulls Henry in for a proper hug. Henry rests his forehead at her shoulder and tries to breathe properly again.

There are few things he’s as grateful for in this world as Wendy Darling.

Then,

“There is no way Tyler’s dating history is on the school computers,” He says, lifting his head again, and Wendy still looks unbearably sad when she looks at him, but there’s a shiftiness to her now.

“…I _may_ have also spoken to the girls about him,” She says, looking guilty, but there’s a small smile playing about her lips as she does.

Henry laughs, and it’s a little weak but it’s real. “Of course you did.”

 

***

 

Peter’s fingers itch for his cigarettes.

This morning, he sent the twins into the village for him for a smoke run, something he hasn’t sent them on for a few months now – since Henry mentioned a distaste for the smell, actually, Peter's so fucking _gone_ – and he barely got through his first one before it was snatched from him, ground into the dirt.

Fuck but even so, Henry had been stunning in his anger, lit up and fuming, the kind of fervour Peter knew from day one was buried inside Henry, deep. It was different, watching it honed to a point and aimed at Peter, cutting, and Peter honestly hadn’t had the words to answer him where he always has before.

Because the anger dimmed as soon as it came, became disappointment, became sadness, and if it had taken the breath out of Peter as he watched Henry walk away, turned his chest cold.

He hadn’t taken out the next cigarette he’d wanted, to warm himself again, or the next, and the pack is lying on Felix’s bed, just a few feet away from where Peter’s slumped on the window-sill, body forced into a deceptively relaxed drape, and Peter’s fingers definitely itch for a smoke when the clock ticks over to seven.

Peter’s been lounging against the window in Felix’s room, legs kicked up the wall and every inch of his body forced into a deceptively relaxed drape, for about an hour now.

It's pointless, really, pretending he isn't watching, waiting, but he does it anyway because he doesn't know how to do anything else. So Peter pretends and Felix keeps quiet about it on the other side of the room.

As always.

There's no movement on the grounds below, the evening dusk still light enough that Peter can see all the way to the gates, and he thinks he just about sees a figure waiting there when the door crashes open.

Peter nearly falls from his perch, startled from his watch, and just about gets his feet under himself again when Wendy storms into the room. He has a moment to take in her pink cheeks, her flashing eyes, before she’s _throwing_ herself at him, hands furled into fists that beat at his chest, and Peter takes the first blow in shock, the rest in quick succession.

“What the- _Wendy!_ “

She doesn't respond, doesn't stop, her hands moving too fast for Peter to catch them, and she lands a clap across Peter's jaw before Felix pulls her away, arms wrapped around her as she shrieks wordlessly, legs kicking and fighting to be free, and it’s the only time Peter’s seen her be anything other than gentle with Felix.

“I swear to _god_ ,” She snarls at him from Felix’s arms, and Peter’s bowled back with the _anger_ of her. He’s been friends with Wendy for years now, seen her miserable and seen her sulking, seen her irritated and seen her cross. He’d thought he’d seen her angry.

It’s nothing compared to this.

“If you let this ridiculousness carry on for one _second_ longer than it has to, I swear I will take Felix’s bat and I will break your _fucking kneecaps, Pan!_ ”

She’s spitting mad, red-faced and shrieking, and when she gets to Peter's name she starts crying, silent tears coursing down her cheeks as she stares at him, chest heaving, finally still. From behind her, Felix ducks in, noses at her hair and Peter can see his mouth moving, can't hear anything other than the wordless comforting hum of his voice.

Wendy leans into him, just for a second, eyes closing, before she breaks the grip he has on her. Felix lets her go.

“We have been putting up with this for months, Peter. _Months_. And it was funny to begin with." Peter swallows his cry of outrage. It's not the time. "Now it’s just sad and you’re making everyone, including Henry, _miserable_.”

She throws herself at Peter and Peter braces himself. But she doesn't renew her attack. She cries into his chest, quiet little sobs that dig into Peter's stomach like knives. Peter holds into her, stunned, mouth working but he doesn't have the words to make this better.

Which is becoming a trend.

His hand finds her hair and he shoots Felix a concerned look over the top of her head as she shakes.

Felix's jaw is set, and Peter knows he's fucked up.

He's known it all week, ever since he didn't go back to the room that first night, but in Felix's eyes there's a hardness that Peter's seen before, of course he has. Never directed at him though.

"She's right," Felix says, voice the kind of steady that scares, clipped and tight. "Do something.”

Peter swallows whatever words he has because none of them will be good enough right now, ducks his head and presses his face into Wendy's hair. Peter's never apologised for a thing in his life, but he hopes this is enough.

Wendy sniffs and unfurls her hands from his shirt, steps back, and she's not forgiving, but she's close.

"I don't-" Peter starts, breaks off and starts again. "He deserves better than me."

"What he deserves is the truth," Wendy says, short, but her hands find his for the briefest moment before he turns away, not wanting, not ready, to hear it.

He leans against the window frame again, and there's movement now, at the end of the long drive. Two figures.

Peter can pick out Henry instantly. His fingers itch again, only this time he's not sure whether it's for a smoke, his pencils, or for Henry himself.

"Whatever he deserves," Felix's voice is low, close to him, and Peter doesn't have to look away from the window to know how Felix is standing. At his back. As always. "It's more than this. You both deserve more than this."

"What if I fuck everything up?" He asks, watching as the silhouettes of Henry and his date, his _Tyler_ , disappear down the lane into the shadows. He laughs and it's an unhappy sound. "What if I've already fucked everything up."

"It's Henry," is all Felix says, and that's enough.

Peter turns away from the window. "I need to think," He mutters, because that's the one thing he's been avoiding doing all week.

"First time for everything," Wendy chuffs and when she smiles at him, there's a hint of forgiveness in her face.

"I'll-" He doesn't know what he will, if he's being honest, settles on, "I'll see you later," and leaves.

The corridors of St Rogers High have been Peter's since he clawed his way from the bottom of them, and he wanders them in the dark. It's the beginning of the weekend, so curfew’s pushed back, but Peter’s feet follows the memories of years moving unseen in the dark, knowing the ways to step, which staircases to climb and where the shadows hide him best, because he doesn’t want to run into anyone right now. He makes his way undisturbed, body moving on instinct as his mind turns, and when he looks up, he's surprised by where he's ended.

Usually, when clearing his head, Peter takes to the roof, wedges a rock in the door and lays out under the stars, counts every one. There's something calming about the stars, has been ever since he was small, and there's never been a place where Peter's felt more _Peter_ than spread out beneath them.

He's not on the roof tonight. He's outside his room, _Henry's_ room, _their_ room, his feet leading him here, and his hand rests on the handle of the door for a long, quiet, time. In the end, he sighs, lets go. It doesn't feel right to go in alone. Not after so long.

Peter sinks to the floor, back pressed against the door, and he waits.

 

***

 

“I had a good time tonight, Henry.”

Henry does his best to smile. It’s dark on the walk back to the school, curfew fast approaching, or even past, he’s not sure what time it is exactly, and he hunches his shoulders against the cold. They lock when Tyler shifts that little bit closer, unease running down his spine, and it’s the darkness, it has to be, playing tricks on Henry’s mind, but all the same he’s glad his hands are buried in his pockets. Out of Tyler’s reach.

From the beginning of the evening, Tyler had been nothing but unfailingly polite, all the right words and the right moves and Henry's sure that, with any other boy, tonight would have been the perfect first date.

It’s just.

For one thing, he can’t get Wendy’s voice out of his head, where he cut her off, and now, here in the dark, he really wishes he’d let her finish, wants to know what Tyler’s previous romantic entanglements had to say about the boy beside him, about his strange wordings, his intense stare that made Henry feel trapped, hunted, under it.

For another… Henry always tries to see the good in people, he does. It's not a trait he's ashamed of, and it's not naivety whatever some people say. Without it, maybe he would have believed the whispers about Peter and Felix, never would have found a family in Wendy Darling, in Curly and her smiles, in Rufio, the twins, in all of his friends.

But. He also grew up with Regina, knows what it's like when people don't love well, even with all their best intentions. Only Henry's starting to get the feeling - or at least starting to acknowledge the feeling that's been growing in the pit of his stomach all week, sickening him - that Tyler doesn't even _have_ those intentions.

For a third, Henry’s been wearing his scarf all evening, and it’s all he can do not to remember it wrapped around a long, pale neck, plucked off and drawn around his own with clever fingers.

“Next time you could let me pick you up this time, properly, from your room, rather than leaving me to wait at that gates for you,” Tyler’s saying, and he’s closer to Henry now than he’s been the whole walk back, close enough that it takes Henry a second to realise what he’s saying.

“Next time?” He echoes, stunned, and Tyler freezes, turns to look at him. The semi-light of the school lights throws into sharp relief the contours of his handsome face and, for a blink, he looks dangerous.

It’s gone in seconds, but Henry saw it.

“I told you I had a really good time tonight, Henry, didn’t you listen?” Tyler’s voice is smooth, black ripples on a midnight river, pulling Henry in. His hand rises, settles at Henry’s cheek, and Henry’s frozen under it. “I’d like to take you out again. Unless you'd like the date to _continue._ ”

His hand brushes against Henry’s scarf, and it's a combination of his words sending panic down Henry's spine, the slight brush of wool against Henry's neck and the fingers there that are just _wrong_ that jolts Henry out of his paralysis. “Tyler,” He says, trying to be firm, and he can see the moment the tone of his voice registers.

Tyler huffs a short, almost _nasty_ , laugh, drops the hand he has at Henry’s cheek and smirks expectantly at him, eyebrow arched. It’s dismissive, and a few months ago it would have been enough to throw Henry’s defiance to the floor, crumpled, because there’s nothing he can stand less than being _laughed_ at when he stands up for himself.

But a few months ago Henry didn’t know his friends, didn’t have Peter’s voice in his head, snarling at Tyler right now.

A fire lights in his chest. “Tyler, this was a very nice date," He says tightly, all of his effort going into not ducking his head.

"It was, wasn't it?" Tyler says, voice soft once again. Henry almost gets whiplash from the sudden change of pace. "Henry I-"

"But I think it should remain like that," He rushes through before Tyler can carry on. "One nice date."

"I don't-"

"Goodnight, Tyler,” Henry doesn’t want to let him finish, can’t. “I can see myself from here."  He doesn’t let him respond either. He turns away and he hates it, turning his back, and it feels like running which Henry’s never been very good at, but he does, quick steps, and he can hear Tyler calling his name in confusion, doesn’t look back.

His heart is hammering in his chest, and he tries to brush off the thoughts in his head telling him he’s overreacting even as he resists the urge to look back, make sure Tyler isn’t following him, which is ridiculous, of course he wouldn’t _chase_ Henry.

He looks back all the same.

No, it wasn’t an overreaction, he’s sure. He _is_. Tyler might not have done anything that Henry can pinpoint, but the feeling of unease when he was alone with Tyler on the walk home is something he never wants to put himself through again.

By the time he’s climbed the stairs to his floor, Henry is definitely ready to put this entire night behind him.

Which is of course why, when he turns the corner, Peter is slumped outside their door.

He looks awful, is the first thing Henry notices, like he hasn’t slept in days, which can’t be true because he didn’t look like this this morning, and there’s a red mark on the line of his jaw that has Henry frowning. He hasn’t noticed Henry’s arrival yet, caught up in whatever thoughts are in Peter’s head, thoughts Henry thinks Peter has difficulty understanding sometimes, and he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Henry’s chest pangs painfully, and he sighs. He hasn’t even accomplished what he set out to do in the first place, Peter still affecting him.

His sigh brings Peter out of himself, eyes snapping to where Henry is, and an expression crosses Peter’s face that Henry can’t identify before it fades into a weak smile.

“Hi,” He says, and his entire body is wire-string tight as he watches Henry.

“Hi,” Henry says, confused. Peter closes his eyes, and his smile becomes more genuine when Henry speaks. Like that, Henry can identify the expression he couldn’t get a hold on. _Hope_.

And suddenly Henry’s too tired to be cross with him, not tonight at least. He’s too glad to see Peter to be angry.

“So, Mills,” Peter says, taking him in, and his face is the most open Henry’s ever seen it. “How’d it go?”

Henry huffs a weak laugh, weaker even than the smile Peter gave him, because there aren’t any words he has for it now other than, “Awful.” He moves, slumps down on the floor next to Peter, and tries not to bury his face in his hands. “Just awful.”

“Fuck,” Peter says, and he sounds genuinely upset for Henry. “You okay?”

Henry just shrugs because he doesn’t know what to say right now, when he always has with Peter.

Peter exhales heavily beside him, and it’s almost sad, the way he says, “C’mere, Henry,” before there’s an arm around Henry’s shoulders, light, ready to be shrugged off if Henry chooses to, and it’s

It’s so different from every slight touch Tyler gave him all night, soft and caring, and Henry welcomes it, leans sideways a little into Peter and tries to uncoil the tension of his every muscle, relax into the not-a-hug Peter’s giving him.

“You wanna tell me, or…?” Henry shakes his head, and if his hand fists a little in Peter’s shirt, Peter doesn’t comment on it, lets Henry take his comfort here. It’s different from any other touch he’s had with Peter before, quieter, less fraught with the tension Henry’s come to realise was his unexamined crush. It’s there, a little, lingering in the back of Henry’s mind, but mostly he’s just glad Peter’s here with him.

“Are we friends again, now?” Henry hates the way his voice sounds when he says it, scared almost, with every moment of loneliness in his life hiding behind it, but it slips out without him meaning to. Peter makes his head spin, and he’s been upside down all week, but it feels like things are coming back to rights, sitting here with him, outside their door.

Peter stiffens against him, hand on Henry’s arm tightening, just a fraction, before he sighs, quiet, more to himself than anything else. “Of course we are, Henry,” He says, vehement and quick, like there is no other answer, and Henry feels relief swell in his chest, happiness. “ _Fuck_ , I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”

“More so than usual,” Henry informs him, gravely, but he lifts his head and grins at him. Peter laughs, and Henry can feel the heat of his breath fan out across his face. “I just. Don’t understand,” He continues, grin fading again, and so does the laughter out of Peter’s face.

“It wasn’t anything you did, Henry,” Peter says, and Henry doesn’t know whether he believes him or not, but he sounds sincere, earnest. “I promise. I just.” He stops. “I’m sorry,” is what he says then, and Henry makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat.

Peter doesn’t apologise, not for anything. It’s part of his make-up, a complete refusal to do anything but own everything he is, and Henry admires it in him. But now he’s saying he’s sorry, to Henry, and Henry doesn’t know what to say.

“Are you actually apologising for something?” He asks, making light, because he can’t think around the way his heart is in his throat, the way Peter’s looking at him, this close.

Peter grins and whatever moment just passed, laden, between them, breaks. “Don’t get used to it, Mills,” He mutters, nudging at Henry, and Henry pushes back, grinning.

They settle into a comfortable silence, and they should probably move sometime soon; it’s definitely past curfew, and they’re just sitting outside their door when their room is perfectly usable. But Henry doesn’t want to move right now, and it seems like Peter doesn’t either.

Peter’s arm is still around him, and Henry really shouldn’t but he lets himself curl a little closer into Peter. His breath hitches a little when Peter pulls him even closer, feels Peter press a kiss into his hair lightly. In comfort, it has to be, but that’s okay because there’s nothing Henry needs more right now.

“So…” He drags the word out, and the hand he had furled in Peter’s top, slackened along the way without him noticing, taps a little at Peter’s chest. “We’re friends again, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

"So can I give you stick about the smoking now or..." He trails off and Peter gives a small laugh, closer to an exhale than anything else.

"I only smoke when I'm upset, Mills."

"What have you got to be upset about?" Henry asks, whatever laughter he had before dying as he lifts his head, finds Peter looking at him, face serious. The way Peter’s looking at him digs into a soft-hidden part of him and Henry feels his breath steal away under it. “Peter?”

But instead of answering, Peter leans just that little bit closer, slow, and his breath whispers out against Henry’s lips, hot. His nose brushes against Henry’s. Confused and caught up in Peter’s gaze, unable to find any words because Peter's just taken everything that isn't right _here_ from him, Henry's frozen. Then Peter presses in, quick, and

_Oh._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Peter kissed me last night.”

 

Peter's kissing him. Peter is definitely kissing him. Those are Peter's lips moving against his, that's Peter's hand sliding into his hair and tilting his head, Peter's breath he can taste when he opens his mouth to it.

That's Peter's tongue.

It's all Henry can do to kiss back, and he is, he's kissing back, he's kissing Peter in the middle of their corridor, hand at Peter's neck, pressing as closely as he can because his brain is offline while Peter's licking into his mouth, happy little noises being hummed into Henry's lips as he pulls back, nips at them. Henry's breath hitches, sparks shuddering across his skin, and he presses back in to kiss Peter again, who enthusiastically welcomes him.

They break to breathe but Peter doesn't stop, peppers kisses along Henry's jaw, his cheeks, the lids of his eyes.

"Don't move out," Peter breathes, ragged, and Henry can barely remember his words from this morning, his promise to leave Peter as alone as he could, but Peter obviously does. " _Please_."

Henry shakes his head. "I won't." And his voice doesn't sound like his own, sounds like there's a stranger wearing it, but he means it. He's promise Peter anything like this, if Peter asked.

But he doesn't. Peter just makes a noise in the back of his throat and presses back in, quick frantic kisses that soothe into longer, lingering ones, until they're just breathing one another in, foreheads pressed together.

"We should probably get out of the corridor," Henry says, and Peter nods silently, as if he has no more words.

They’re barely across the threshold before they’ve found each other again, in the dark, neither one of them bothering to turn on the light, and Henry’s being walked backwards, Peter’s hands sure at his hips, his own arms sliding around Peter’s neck, pulling him closer because, _god_ , he’s kissing Peter and Peter’s kissing him back, quick, hot kisses that don’t seem to end. Henry’s head is spinning.

Peter’s hands are under Henry’s coat, his shirt, at the dip of his hips and they’re warm, heat spreading out across Henry’s skin, the rub of Peter’s fingertips making him shiver into Peter’s mouth, until they’re gone and Peter’s pushing at his coat, pulling at his scarf.

Henry’s mouth opens on a moan as Peter’s teeth find the column of his neck, and he can feel Peter smiling against him.

_Fuck, what are they doing?_

But Henry can’t seem to find any of his misgivings when Peter’s kissing up the line of his throat, smudging breaths across Henry’s jaw until Henry turns into his mouth again, catches it. All he can think about is Peter pressed against him, his breath swapping with Henry’s, his mouth, his mouth, his _mouth_ that keeps kissing and kissing him, can’t think about what he’s doing when he follows the desire to kiss at Peter’s neck, hear Peter groan above him. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard, until Peter murmurs his name, sounding wrecked, and finds his lips again.

They don’t speak again except to laugh into each other when they stumble back, falling onto Peter’s bed, until Peter’s lying between Henry’s legs and it isn’t funny anymore.

Peter presses up on his elbows, and in the dark Henry can barely make out his expression, can only see the moonlight shine reflecting in his eyes. Peter doesn’t say anything, his quick, quiet pants of breath the only sound as Henry holds his, waiting, but he hangs there for a long moment, watching Henry, before his fingers trace down the side of Henry’s face, gentle.

Henry feels like he’s shaking apart under it.

“Peter?” He asks, quiet, barely a whisper, but Peter doesn’t answer, just presses back in and kisses Henry again, only this time it’s different. Slower. Lingering, and it twists something in Henry’s stomach as he kisses back.

It feels sad, almost, but Henry doesn’t want to feel like that, not now, not after tonight. He can deal with everything tomorrow, all he wants to do now is keep kissing Peter and pretend he can have it.

So he does, does until Peter’s himself again, and the pace doesn’t pick back up, but they lie like that for a long time swapping kisses in the dark, until they fall asleep, between one kiss and the next, wrapped up in each other on Peter's bed.

 

***

 

Peter wakes up.

Peter wakes up _first_.

Peter wakes up to Henry Mills in his bed, in his arms, smiling just a little in his sleep. This close, Peter can count every eyelash as it flutters, see every freckle, feel Henry’s every breath as it fans out across his face. He aches, deep in his chest, as Henry shifts slightly in his sleep, licks his lips. Lips that are red and blushed with kisses that Peter gave him.

He sleeps on, undisturbed, as Peter, _quietly_ , freaks the fuck out.

He kissed Henry last night. He finally, _finally,_ kissed Henry, without meaning to, without even _saying_ anything. He. Kissed. Henry. And Henry kissed him back, kissed him back _enthusiastically_. Peter can still feel it on his lips, still feel Henry’s hands in his hair and hear the _sounds_ he was making.

Peter never wants to not be kissing Henry again. Long, deep kisses. Quick, hot ones. Pressing them into his hair. Biting them into his neck. He wants to nip at Henry’s bottom lip until Henry’s knees go weak, wants to let Henry suck marks into his neck and mark Henry up himself. He’s wanted to kiss Henry for a very long time, and last night he was allowed, allowed himself, could show Henry with his tongue and his teeth and his hands exactly what Henry meant to him, the way he’s never been able to with his words, never been able to let himself.

Only…

Only Peter has no idea what it means, whether Henry even heard him, can’t examine it past the memories of _HenryHenryHenry_.

He doesn’t know what it meant to Henry.

But even that, even all of that, _pales_ in comparison to his current predicament.

Peter’s hard.

He’s hard, _painfully_ so, and he’s pressed close enough to Henry right now, like this, thigh pressed between Henry’s, that he can tell intimately that Henry’s in much the same position as he is. He envies Henry his ignorance in sleep and starts calculating how exactly he’s going to get out of this, moves just a little and regrets it when stars explode behind his eyelids.

He makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat, punched out of him, shudders, and against him, Henry moves.

Peter freezes.

Just for a second he forgets about his panic. Just for a second. Because Henry is blinking his eyes open, slowly, sleepily, and he looks so soft and open in the late morning light leaking through the curtains that Peter’s breath steals away from him. Henry is the gentlest person Peter has ever met, too gentle for him, and he’s painfully reminded of it in that second.

Then Henry stretches, shifts, and his hips circle, unconscious, with a low moan and Peter is _dying_ , this is how Peter dies, with a half-asleep Henry Mills grinding against him. Henry’s breath stutters and the beginning of his sleep-stained, blissed-out smile stills, disappears as his mouth falls open in a perfect O and he locks eyes with Peter in horror. If Peter had any brain cells left he’d watch in fascination as Henry’s face whitens, the seconds stretching out in excruciating silence, before flooding with colour

“Henr-“ Peter barely gets Henry’s name out before Henry’s moving, lurching away from Peter as if Peter’s an open wire, burning him.

"Oh my god," He breathes, and if he looked mortified before it's nothing to how he sounds. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I'm- I don't- I-"

"Henry," Peter sits up with difficulty. "Breathe."

Either Henry ignores him, or simply can't hear him in his panic.

"Henry, you haven't done anything-"

"We- And you- And I-" Henry's panicking and Peter doesn't know what to do to help, wants to reach out and soothe Henry but knows instinctively that that would be the wrong thing to do here.

It helps even less that Henry's turned a distractingly lovely shade of pink. Peter's cock jumps in his jeans.

_Not the time._

" _Henry,_ " He tries again and this time Henry hears him, takes him in. Henry's breathing shortly, close to hyperventilating, and Peter doesn't know what it is he sees when he looks at Peter but just for a second he calms, eyes locked with Peter's, and Peter can see a dozen different emotions racing through his eyes as he breathes his first steady breath.

Then Peter moves. He means to get up, get to face level with Henry, say something that isn't his name or a platitude, or just to kiss him he doesn't know, but it's a mistake. As soon as he moves, Henry _bolts_.

Their shared bathroom door all but slams shut behind him, the lock clicks loud in the silence caused by Henry’s sudden departure, and Peter stares at the place where he stood in something close to bewilderment for a long moment. He exhales heavily and thumps back into his pillows.

Well that could have gone better.

Glaring at his jeans, Peter silently wills his cock to go down, palms himself roughly through the denim and bites back the moan the friction yanks from him. Henry's freaked enough, he doesn't need to hear that.

Peter forgets, sometimes, how innocent Henry is. He's not naive, not stupid, and sometimes he seems eons wiser than Peter will ever be, but in things like this... In things like this, Henry's still the scared boy he met all those months ago, lonely and inexperienced in things. Peter's taught him most, they all have, taken him by the hand and pulled him in and out of trouble, and Peter knows Henry's loved every second of it. Back in the warmer nights of early fall when they all spent their weekend afternoons passing alcohol stolen from the kitchens between them and lazing on the grounds as the sun slipped away, Peter remembers Henry curled up next to him, alcohol warm and grinning, telling him so. Henry'd held his hand so tight that night, fallen asleep against Peter's side and Peter had all but carried him back to their room, shaking off Tootles and Pockets' offers of help for reasons Peter hadn't been able to pinpoint at the time.

He'd taken Henry back to their room and laid him out on top of his bed, Henry falling asleep in seconds with the dopiest grin on his face, and Peter hadn't know why he did it, but he leant down and pressed an impulsive kiss to Henry's forehead as he drifted into sleep.

Up until that point he'd been attracted to Henry. From day one he's been attracted to Henry, ever since he, Wendy and Felix were lounging on the front steps, saw a black car pull up and a brunette boy with wide eyes and pink lips get out. But after that...Peter can still remember the way his lips felt after that, tingling, and he'd touched them absently, sure it was just the booze in his system.

And yet.

And yet from that day forward, Peter knew.

Henry's always been more.

There's no sound coming from behind the bathroom door. Peter sighs, and gets up, thankful that his problem's fading, as gingerly steps close to the door. "Henry?" He says, quietly, and he hears a quiet noise that's almost an invitation to continue. "I'll...I'll be downstairs. At breakfast. Okay?"

"Yeah okay!" Henry calls through the door, too high, too quick, and Peter closes his eyes, exhales heavily.

He leaves.

It's late enough in the morning that the corridors are mostly empty, most people already at breakfast or out enjoying the lack of classes the weekend brings already, and Peter's tempted by the emptiness to find a quiet place to think. The roof, maybe, even without the stars Peter loves it up there, the heights and the wind, the closet illusion to freedom he can get in this place.

He decides against it, heads for the dining hall. If Henry comes looking for him, Peter wants him to find him.

Peter feels antsy all over, electric, and he's dying for a cigarette all over again. He told Henry he only smoked when upset, but apparently anxious fits the bill too. He doesn't want to go through the doors, suddenly certain that as soon as he walks in it'll be obvious what he was doing last night.

...Come to think of it, what _were_ they doing last night?

He kissed Henry, and Henry kissed him back, but. But did it mean anything? Was it just Henry looking for comfort and happened to find it in Peter? Is Peter overthinking this, or was Henry's freak out this morning due not to his inexperience, but to the splash of reality that he made out with his roommate and the realisation that it was a horrible mistake?

Peter feels sick, is very glad for Wendy's voice across the hall calling him to their table, knocking him out of his thoughts.

Most of his friends are already there, crowded around the table, but they make room for him by Felix and Peter slides in, grateful, relaxing just a little by Felix's side.

"You look like shit," Rufio comments from his right and Peter chooses to bare his teeth at her rather than answering, reaching for some juice.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to her conversation with Slightly.

"She's right," Wendy chimes in, and Peter shoots her a look. "That red mark does nothing for you."

Peter's hand flies to his neck, where he can still feel the phantom presence of Henry's mouth, sucking fantastically at the skin there, before he realises Wendy means his jaw and the beginnings of a bruise she left there last night.

He busies his hands with toast, can feel Wendy eying him shrewdly anyway.

"Where's Henry?" Wendy asks him loudly, and a slight beat of silence passes around the table at the mention of his name. Wendy's lips purse as she hears it and Peter's spoken to everyone, alright, he gets why they acted the way they did but it's not right, not fair, and he thinks they got it. But there's still a moment of awkwardness before the conversation picks up again. Peter tries not to sigh, ignores the twin looks Felix and Wendy are giving him.

"In the room," He says defensively, then, softening, says, "Check up on him will you? His date..." He trails off and something flickers in Wendy's eyes.

"It didn't go well?" She asks, alert, and there's another sweep of silence around the table.

Peter has _got_ to get some less nosy friends.

Peter waits a moment before answering, remembers the cracked sound of Henry's voice as he'd muttered "Awful, just awful" last night, and he doesn't think Henry would want him to mention it.

"He'll tell you," Is what he chooses to say, and Wendy's expression is fierce before she nods shortly and pushes away from the table, disappearing through the doors.

Peter goes back to his breakfast, and it takes him a second to realise that all of his friends are watching him, and all of them - with the exception of Felix who's looking at Peter, considering - have large grins on their faces.

"Oh, fuck off all of you," He mutters, and bites into his toast.

 

***

 

Henry’s been in the quiet of the bathroom for about ten minutes, sunk against the door, when there’s a knocking behind him.

He ignores it. His lungs feel like they’re pushing against his ribs, too full, his head is spinning, and all he can keep thinking about is PeterPeter _Peter_ , which is nothing new because Henry’s been pushing Peter out of his head all week, only now he’s thinking about Peter’s hands, his mouth, his groans, his hard cock pressed against Henry’s... Henry can feel his blush blazing across his cheeks, buries his head in his hands and tries to breathe.

He grits his teeth, willing away the hardness in his jeans because for a second, just a second, seeing Peter so close, pupils blown to blackness, and feeling his breath shuddering out against Henry, Henry had considered chasing it, considered chasing the sensations rocketing through him, following the unconscious beginnings of his hips into something frantic and and and…

He's panicking and it's ridiculous and _he's hiding in the bathroom who_ does _that_ but he still can't stop smiling.

His fingers find his mouth and touch at his lips in awe. They’re swollen, even after sleep, and he’s sure that if he looked in the bathroom mirror he’d look a wreck right now. A laugh burbles out of him and he can’t tell if it’s happy or hysterical because, fuck, in a week – a _night_ – everything’s changed on him and he doesn’t quite know where his head is right now.

Certainly doesn’t know it enough leave the quiet of the bathroom, to face Peter like this.

He’s still shaking.

But when the call of “Henry?” comes through the door, gentle and coaxing, it’s Wendy’s voice, and Henry doesn’t know how she knows to be here right now but he’s glad for it.

He takes in a breath. “Yeah.”

“Peter...” She starts, trails off, and her voice is hushed, worried. Henry frowns a little in confusion. “Peter asked me to check on you, said your date-” She stops again. “Henry, did Tyler...?”

It’s like a splash of cold water, last night’s date coming rushing back.

“ _Henry?_ ” Wendy asks again, voice slipping into the higher notes of concern when he doesn’t answer.

He reaches up and unlocks the door, scooting out of the way enough that Wendy can get in.

"If you dare say 'oh, Henry,' I am walking out," He warns before she can even say anything.

But she doesn't, doesn't say anything, just locks the door behind her again and slides down next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

"That bad?"

"The date?" Henry nods. "Pretty bad, yeah."

And he explains, everything he couldn't find the words for last night pours out of him, every slightly edged comment, every too familiar touch, and watches Wendy's face grow from fierce concern into an entire thunderstorm.

The hand she has on him tightens painfully when he gets to the end of the evening. “ _What?_ ” She hisses as Henry stutters over Tyler’s suggestion that the date continue, and Henry has to find her hand on his arm, hold on. He’s not sure whether it’s for comfort or whether he’s stopping her from heading after Tyler.

“I didn’t- I didn’t want to-“ She starts, stops, and takes a breath. Henry waits for her to start again, wraps his arm around her as she leans in, and he absently wonders whether he's doomed to talk out all his most serious conversations sitting like this on the floor. “You remember what I was telling you about him yesterday? Or tried to, at least."

There's no judgement in her voice, but Henry remembers his panic of yesterday in embarrassment. Though it's hardly like it was unfounded.

"I remember."

"Every one I spoke to said something like that," Wendy says and Henry can tell she's being vague for his sake, doesn't want her to be. Not about this. "Things got intimate too fast. And if it was your decision I didn't want to, y'know, _force_ you into saying no, but-"

"There wasn't much of last night that felt like my decision, actually," Henry says quietly, and he bites absently at his bottom lip, can't play with his hands when he's holding onto Wendy like this. "Saying no, that felt like my decision."

Kissing Peter back, that felt like his decision.

"Good," Wendy says firmly and Henry has to remind himself for a startled second that she was answering what he said aloud, not the thoughts in his head. "Told you that you needed to get better at saying no. You all need to start listening to me more."

"Listened when it mattered, though." Henry tells her, knocking her gently, and she knocks back, smiling a little happier. "Can't believe I wasted my first date on him, though," He says, aiming for breeziness when he probably just sounds sad.

Wendy laughs a little. "My first date was set up by my _parents_ ," She says, and Henry can imagine that, can certainly imagine Regina trying to do the same for him sometime soon. "Trust me, first dates are overrated unless they're with the right people." She smiles a little and Henry knows she's thinking of Felix. "First kisses, though, that's something to look forward to."

She tips her head back onto his shoulder and smiles at him. When he doesn't answer, her expression grows stormy again. "Unless. Please tell me that sorry sack of shit didn't take your first kiss, Henry."

"I've kissed people before!" He reminds her, voice rising an octave in indignation, rather than answering her.

Wendy sniffs dismissively. "It doesn't count when it's your friends and we're drinking. Why do you think-" She cuts herself off there, and whatever she was about to say is gone when she shakes her head. "You're avoiding the question. Henry, do I or do I not have to track down this dick and may him pay?"

She would, too. And Tyler would have to be monumentally stupid not to run when he saw her coming.

"Tyler didn't kiss me," He assures her, and he doesn't realise he's started rubbing at his neck, at the place where Peter was last night, in a strange press of comfort to the still sensitised skin there, until Wendy cocks her head, frowning, as here eyes zero in on the movement.

"Peter was doing that," She says, slowly, pulling away a little to get a better look at him.

"He was?" Henry hedges, not sure whether he should leave his hand there or yank it away, but Wendy doesn't seem to be listening anymore.

"Henry, why were you hiding in the bathroom?" She asks, slowly, and Henry doesn't have a good answer that isn't the truth, doesn't want to lie to her anyway, ever, but especially not about this. It feels like it's going to burst out of Henry's chest.

His smile returns without warning, pulling at his cheeks and close to hurting, because he was panicking panicking _panicking_ but in that really good way, for once, that warms him from the inside, makes him feel like flying, and he sees it dawn on Wendy’s face just as he gets out, “Peter kissed me last night.”

He blinks, bewildered, into the sudden faceful of _hair_ in his mouth because Wendy’s thrown herself at him with a shriek, a tight hug that Henry catches on instinct. “Fucking _finally!_ ” She says, laughs, into his ear

Henry didn’t really know what he’d expected from Wendy’s reaction, but that wasn’t it. At all.

His smile fades a little in confusion, though it’s still there at the edges even as he frowns. “What?” It comes out on an almost-laugh. “What are you talking about ‘finally’?”

Henry thinks Wendy freezes a little against him, sighs almost exasperatedly, but it’s gone and she’s moving before he can be _sure_. “Nothing, Henry,” She shakes her head. “Forget I said it, I just- He kissed you? Honestly?”

Henry’s still confused, and Wendy’s hiding something from him which he doesn’t like, but her happiness for him is genuine, as is her question, and even at those words he can’t help his smile as it races back onto his face.

He ducks his head, bites down on his bottom lip, and he’s sure he can still taste Peter there.

“I-“ He laughs. “ _I’m not gossiping with you about my love life in the bathroom_!”

Wendy groans. “ _Henry Mills_ , I swear to god-“

“He kissed me,” Henry says, sure and smiling, and it sounds a lot scarier in the air.

Better, too.

 

***

 

Peter doesn’t even realise his fingers are tapping staccato on the table until Felix reaches out and stills them. He looks up and meets Felix’s eyes silently. One eyebrow raises at him. Peter exhales softly, slides his hand out from under Felix’s and rubs it across his face.

“Peter-“

“Felix.” Peter looks up, looks his best friend in the eyes, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking but he’s _begging_ right now.

As always, as _always_ , Felix understands Peter better than Peter understands himself, frowns a little unhappily, but nods and picks up his fork again, attacking his eggs.

Peter laughs briefly, but keeps his eyes on the door Wendy disappeared out of twenty minutes ago, carefully keeps his fingers from tapping again.

_Fuck, what is taking so long?_

That’s even if Wendy’s coming back at all. She’s well known for deciding Henry’s had enough of a day and whisking him away, alcohol in hand, to lounge somewhere in the sun that none of them can find, Peter included, which is equal parts reassuring and _maddening_.

Felix probably knows.

He’ll also never tell Peter.

When Wendy finally, _finally_ , reappears, Henry in tow, Peter feels the weight on his chest disappear before it immediately returns, even heavier than before. Because Wendy’s face is a strange mixture of angry as hell and radiating smugness, and he knows before she finds him, smirks, that Henry’s told her _everything_.

Which is probably why he’s blushing so incredibly hard, cheeks blazing pink, and Peter has an almost visceral reaction at the sight of it, bites down on his bottom lip and grins because Henry’s looking up, meeting his eyes, and his blush gets, if possible, _brighter_.

There are two spaces free around their table. One the other side of Felix, which Wendy takes happily.

The other is next to Peter.

Peter’s suddenly aware of his entire body when Henry slides into the seat next to him, but he can’t help the way it turns, slightly, to Henry, catching his eyes even as Henry tries to duck his head, hide his blush.

“You okay?” He murmurs, reaching out a little before he remembers what happened the last time he did that and pulling back. Henry’s eyes track his hand, before darting away.

“I’m good,” He says, quiet enough that only Peter can hear, and Peter _doesn’t know what that means_.

Peter’s best with his words, knows how to twist them and play with them, make them do whatever he wants. But Henry’s not like that, doesn’t _do_ that, and Peter sometimes thinks he’ll never be able to read Henry, not even when he really, really, wants to.

Right now, he _needs_ to.

Then Henry smiles at him, and Peter doesn’t need anything else.

“Peter,” Wendy says from behind him, voice lilting, pointed, and Peter could throw something with how her voice makes Henry blink, duck his head again. “Weren’t those the clothes you were wearing last night?”

Peter stiffens and Henry’s head snaps back up, eyes wide as he turns them on Wendy, betrayed.

“I fell asleep in them,” Peter mutters, turning to collect the vicious smile Wendy’s directing at him. “Preoccupied.”

Wendy hums, and she’s about to say something else - Peter braces for it – when her eyes catch on someone over the table, and it’s almost in sync the way both she and Felix both freeze, faces turning hard, and Peter knows as soon as he hears Henry’s quiet ‘oh’ who it is.

And sure enough, when Peter turns, Tyler is standing there, eyes on Henry, and maybe Peter’s biased but he really doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him. He inches his chair a little closer to Henry’s.

“Hi, Henry.”

“Tyler.” Henry’s voice is strained, clipped almost, and Peter’s never heard him like that, so closed off. Neither has anyone else, if the looks around the table are anything to go by.

“Can we talk?” Tyler ducks his head a little, and it’s not the way Henry does it. Peter knows that move. Peter’s _done_ that move. That move is the reason Tink lets him take art supplies out of the art block whenever he likes, though Peter’s pretty sure that Tink sees through it.

That head duck makes Tyler seem smaller, contrite and approachable, and if Peter didn’t like Tyler before, it’s nothing compared to how his skin crawls at the sight of that being used on Henry.

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” Henry says, and his knuckles are white where they’re gripping the edge of the table, and Peter wants to reach out for him.

“Please, Henry?” Tyler presses. “I just want to-“ He stops, sighs loudly. “I just wanted to say that _it’s okay_.”

Peter can feel Henry’s surprise. “Okay?” Henry repeats, incredulous. “What’s okay?”

Tyler smiles and it’s so condescending that it sets Peter’s teeth on edge, doesn’t know how Henry doesn’t just _yell_ at the sight of it, because there’s nothing on this world that Henry hates more than being talked down to, but Henry’s still shocked beside him. “What I mean is, I forgive you.”

“ _What?!_ ” Wendy hisses, and she looks about ready to eviscerate Tyler with her cutlery.

Henry just looks like he’s been punched, face pale.

“You forgive me?” He repeats, voice quiet, and the sound of it _echoes_ around the group, every face turning hard. Peter’s friends might be stupidly loyal, but they protect their own and Henry’s _theirs_. The twins bare their teeth, but Tyler doesn’t even look twice.

“Yeah,” He shrugs, seemingly oblivious or just uncaring of Henry’s white face, his hunched shoulders. “I thought I’d give you a second chance, another date this Friday?”

And Peter doesn’t know what happened between Henry and Tyler, doesn’t have to know, not if Henry doesn’t want him to, but Henry physically _cringes_ away at that, and a switch _flips_ in Peter.

He’s speaking before he even realises.

“No.”

His voice is ice, the kind of hard he doesn’t often get unless he has to, and he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, Henry’s too, but he’s just staring at Tyler, who’s looking back.

“Excuse m-“

“No.” Peter repeats, because he will not excuse this, he will never excuse this.

“Pan, I really-“

“ _No_.” Peter starts to rise, but there’s a kick to his chair and a hand on his shoulder, Felix holding him down. Peter doesn’t break eye-contact with Tyler, but he can feel Felix’s _not now_ warning. He’s almost grateful, doesn’t know what he intended to do but odds are it wasn’t anything he wanted Henry to see.

“I think it’s probably best if you leave,” Felix says, low, and his face is set in something close to a snarl as he stares Tyler down.

It’s not a face many are stupid enough to look at and stick around to see the conclusion of, the slightest hint of teeth and the edge of savagery that Peter knows Felix keeps hidden from everyone, Peter included sometimes, and Tyler’s smart enough to

He goes in a disgruntled mutter, feet tripping over themselves as he tries not to _run_ from Felix, and Peter can feel Henry breathe a sigh of relief, turns to thank Felix. But Felix is openly _glaring_ at him, like he wants to smack some sense into Peter or toss him out a window. Peter stays very still underneath it.

He _knows_ what Felix is getting at, alright. Peter can be protective over Henry all he wants, they all are to some extent, it’s a part of loving Henry. But that’s not _all_ that was. Buried beneath it, deep in Peter’s chest, was the same jealousy and possessiveness he’s been fighting all week, and Peter doesn’t have a right to that. Not at all.

Felix’s gaze becomes long suffering and he sighs, before he gets up, taking Wendy’s hand. Wendy affords Peter no such kindness, and whatever sense she had of being at Peter’s, _Henry’s_ , back through all that, is gone once again as she stares daggers at Peter.

Peter meets her eyes, doesn’t blink.

She huffs angrily and leaves, stops to drop a kiss on Henry’s hair before taking Felix’s hand again and walking away.

Peter stares after them both, and without them feels a little lost at sea, feels worse when Henry looks up at him and Peter can’t read his face at all when he’s usually so expressive and

Peter’s _maybe_ just realising that he definitely just fought Henry’s battle for him.

And Henry _hates_ that.

The urge to run builds in Peter at that realisation, like a pressure on the base of his spine, but he forces it back, doesn’t look away from Henry’s unreadable face when he asks, quiet, “Can we talk?”

And Peter takes it back, all of it, he _loves_ his friends, because at that the table around them is suddenly so very sparse that he’d blink with it if he weren’t too busy keeping his feet in place, watching a myriad of expressions flit across Henry’s face, all too fast for him to read, and Henry _isn’t answering him_.

Instead he’s looking at Peter like he’s trying to divine something, read him the way Peter’s struggling to read Henry right now, only Henry must be doing a better job because he blinks, nods a little. Peter doesn’t know what he found there, isn’t sure he wants to know, and then Henry speaks.

“I could have handled that,” He says, quietly. It’s not accusing, it’s just _there_ , hanging between them.

“I know.”

Then Henry smiles, small and soft but so very bright, and it’s for Peter, it’s _just_ for Peter. “But I’m glad I didn’t have to,” He says, reaches out, and any words Peter had after that are gone, gone, _gone_ , because Henry Mills is holding his hand, gentle, the way Peter’s trying so hard to be and keeps on missing.

Peter’s frozen under it, doesn’t know what to do, what to say, can’t do anything except let the smile he feels building up under his chin spread across his face stupidly. Henry’s blush comes back, a little, tinting the tips of his ears and the tops of his cheeks, and he bites down on his bottom lip, grinning. Peter wants to duck in, kiss him, taste that smile for himself, but all he can do is sit there like an idiot, smiling, fingers twisting with Henry’s.

There’s a ringing sound and Peter’s sure it’s his ears until Henry jolts, dropping Peter’s hand in surprise. The ringing grows louder as Peter becomes aware of it, shrill, and it’s the end of meal bell.

Peter’s never hated St Jones’ more than he has in that second, because Henry’s picking up his bag, muttering something about Curly, and he’s gone.

Peter sits there for a long moment, stunned, trying to climb back to himself, to Peter Pan, and when he finally makes it out of the dining hall, he finds Felix and Wendy lounging on the main steps outside, trying to enjoy their Saturday.

“I didn’t ask him out,” He says, feeling a little shell-shocked.

Felix throws his bag at him.

Wendy is less kind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is appreciated!


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